


Our Blackened Hearts

by On_Errand_Bad



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hogwarts, Pureblood Society (Harry Potter), Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:41:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 11
Words: 94,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27268915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/On_Errand_Bad/pseuds/On_Errand_Bad
Summary: On a cold night during the first Wizarding War, a child of great power is born to the pureblood family Nott. A plot set by Dumbledore helps the infant escape to to Privet Drive, where she lives a sheltered life under the watch of Ms. Figg, befriending the boy who lives at number four across the street. For fifteen years, she is not allowed to attend Hogwarts, and Remus Lupin is sent to help her control her very strong magic. But soon, evil occurrences necessitate her entry upon the magical world, and she must venture into the darkness to save herself and her loved ones. Please note that though the first chapter is set during the first Wizarding War, the story itself takes place during the usual Hogwarts era. I adore and respond to all messages! OFC and Remus Lupin will end up in a non-platonic relationship, so if you don't approve of age differences, this might not be for you! In the same vein, there will be major NonCon themes--there will be emotional healing later on, so this fic is not 100% darkness, but it takes a few chapters before the light truly arrives. ***This story is also posted on fanfiction.net, so some notes apply to users on that site, not AO3*** I hope you enjoy!
Relationships: Remus Lupin/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 16





	1. I | Before

Note:

Greetings, weary traveler. Long have you searched the quagmire of this fandom for a story suited to your needs. I welcome you, now, into my humble abode, invite you to take off your soaked-through shoes and sit before my warm, crackling fire whilst I treat you to the following story...

Okay, who am I kidding with this waxing-philosophical stuff? Here's the point: this is the first chapter of my first story, which I plan to continue. I implore you to read onward if you're looking for something original and a little more on the sincere side of the fandom.

I am not a U.K. writer, so I will probably miss many colloquialisms. In the same vein, please forgive any typos—they will likely be minor. I will attempt throughout to use spells/charms/incantations/whatever-you-want-to-call-them as accurately as possible-but, let's be honest, sometimes it can be hard to pin down the right one.

Just so you know (though you might really not need me to tell you this), the casting choices I list for characters at the beginning of each chapter are solely the actors I use in my own head to help the writing process move more smoothly. For original characters I just pick from the general pool depending on what best suits my creative needs, and for canon characters I pretty much revert to the films. Sure, these faces might help me rationalize these characters in my head, but that does not mean you have to use them when you read! It's not my intention to annoy you by listing them, and if you have trouble because of it, please just ignore it (there have been cast lists for stories I've read that have totally wigged me out, so I get that). I just thought it would be fun to share this little part of my writing process with you! And it is my hope, of course, that some of the people listed might click for you as you read. But, really, there's no stress surrounding the "cast" lists.

Now... Let's get down to it!

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling the Utmost Venerable.

Chapter One Totally Optional Cast (in order of appearance)

Alicia Vikander . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Maid  
Rosamund Pike . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Vanessa Nott  
Holliday Grainger . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Wet Nurse  
Amanda Seyfried . . . . . . . . . . . . Assistant to the Midwife  
Judi Dench . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Midwife  
Maggie Smith . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Minerva McGonagall  
Richard Harris . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Albus Dumbledore  
Kathryn Hunter . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Arabella Figg  
Fiona Shaw . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Petunia Dursley

****************************************************************************************************

I | Before

March 1978  
The House of the Family Nott

No-one notices the maid. They never do, and she, in turn, never gives them cause to. Over the nigh on ten years of her servitude to the Nott family, she has become skilled in the complex arts of Keeping Her Head Down and Not Speaking Unless Spoken To. Though she'd been raised to be a submissive, quiet lady, and had lived up to the harsh expectations of the nuns who had fostered her, along with those of the critical members of each social circle she'd found herself in following her release from the convent, a small, taut-strung part of her had never ceased in its longing for a greater purpose. And this is the night upon which her efforts will finally be rewarded.

She stands in the shadowed corner with hands clasped against her wash-worn apron, listening to the screams of her mistress, face idle. All the while, her heart jarring with each beat like the wheels of a train over rails, safe, secret beneath her night-darkened skin. The corners of her humble mouth remain straight, while behind them, a smile is tugging. She feels the power in the bowstrings of her teeth, preparing to release, but stealthy, silent, lying in wait, like a dragon with eyes a-glitter. A true-running power, boasting no link to the magic in her blood: a sudden leverage, a power to destroy, to create, to free.

Vanessa Nott throws her head back against the massive bed as though determined to fracture her skull against the mattress, and screams, more loudly than the maid believes is necessary. Once, a young scorned expecting mother had taken refuge within the convent, and, when her delivery day came, had given birth to a healthy baby without so much as a groan, despite the dangerous narrowness of her hips.

Posted in the opposite corner of the room, her hands clasped similarly, stands the wet nurse. As the lady of the house screams and curses she rolls her eyes and purses her lips in a barely-contained smile. But the maid intercepts her eyes, shakes her head almost imperceptibly, and the woman across from her dutifully bridles her amusement.

"Get Haden!" wails the woman sprawled with an arched back on the edge of the mattress, arms reaching out towards the bedposts, trying to make a sacrificial lamb of herself. The maid and the wet nurse share a glance. It's astounding how, even in the final throes of childbirth, their mistress goes to such lengths to make something dramatic and tragic of herself. Surely, an impulse which they, being simple women not bound to the requirements of the aristocracy, will never understand. And, thus, an impulse they allow themselves to laugh at—but only in the privacy of each other's company, or in the safety of their own secretive minds.

"Milady," soothes the midwife's assistant, trying to press a cool cloth against Vanessa's forehead, but she is promptly swatted away. "Milady, Master Nott is away at battle; he could not be home."

"Gods!" says the soon-to-be mother, chest heaving, a strangled sound between a roar and a moan breaking through her throat like glass. "I am not daft, foolish girl!"

"Apologies, Milady—"

But she is interrupted by yet another bellowing shout. This time, however, the sound of the mother is overlapped by the sound of a second being, a new life, springing forth into the arms of the midwife, face skyward, wailing hoarsely. Eyes wide open.

"A girl," announces the midwife, magically severing the umbilical cord and swathing the infant witch in soft cloth.

In the corner, hidden, the maid's eyes flicker. The new power in the room is palpable, if only to her. New power, fresh and greater than she had ever imagined, even after Albus Dumbledore's thorough warnings of his lofty expectations. Inside herself, the maid feels a great pride, but alongside it, a great fear for this newborn's life. Surely the Nott family would manipulate this power once they realized it, subjugating the girl to even more misery than she already would have experienced, just by being female in the cruel system the pureblood aristocracy had created in favor of patriarchal practices.

The aura of undiluted power radiates from the blanketed form, the timbre in the infant's cries screaming of volatility and prophecy. This is most certainly The Girl, destined for greatness, destined to set future events in motion. This is the maid's mission. Her purpose, as the long-bearded, grey-robed, bespectacled headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry had explained, eight months previous, when he had requested that she take the open servant post at the Nott household. All the days boiled down to this night. None of her previous victories matter unless she succeeds now.

The new mother seems at a loss for what to do with herself now that the excuse for her screaming has left her body: she lays back limply, and appears to be barely breathing. No urge to see the child or question its nature possesses her. The midwife stands, holding the girl in her arms, and walks around the side of the bed while her young assistant warily props the Mistress Nott up against the headboard with cloud-like pillows.

"It's cold," says Vanessa, looking around, like a newborn, herself. The maid moves forward and casts an efficient charm over the bed, clearing it of the blood and other fluids produced over the course of the birthing process. The comforter tugs itself gently from beneath the legs of the Lady. The maid smiles inwardly, measuring the strength she gives herself by refraining from the use of force which she so desires to inflict. She would like to make this pureblood bitch scream through a mouthful of her own blood. But instead she makes the blankets hover over Vanessa's body, and settles them gently over her now-clean nightgown. This is the last night. After this, the maid will never have to look at the miserable Lady again.

Likely, soon enough, she will never have to look at anyone again. But, for now, she brushes that thought aside.

The midwife places the child in its mother's reluctant arms, a look of raw annoyance passing behind Lady Nott's eyes as she does so. "What shall her name be?" asks the old midwife, a fresh look in her wrinkled face after safely completing the challenging task of overseeing a birth. The maid wonders briefly how many first breaths have been taken in this woman's arms. The midwife's assistant picks at the cuticles of her thumbnails, gnawing on the inside of her cheek. It seems the naming of the offspring is her favorite part of the process. Even the wet nurse hidden in the opposite corner has her ears perked for the Lady's answer, ignoring the sudden wetness seeping through her shirt over her breasts, prompted by the newborn's cries.

But an answer does not come. "I will await Haden's return. We will decide on a name together upon his arrival."

"Milady," ventures the midwife's assistant, staring at the Mistress as though she has committed a heinous misdeed—which, perhaps, she has. "It would be a mentionable risk to leave a child nameless for so long."

"For so long?" comes the anticipated rebuttal, the Lady's eyes snapping. "Haden will return within the hour and the child will have been done no disservice by the wait. Take her, now. You." The mother lifts the child up and the midwife quickly takes her into her arms. The nurse with the circles of milk staining the chest of her frock is beckoned wordlessly and steps forward, arms outstretched to receive the swaddled newborn. "This is absurd," proclaims Vanessa Nott, no longer inclined to remain in bed, swinging her legs over the lip of the mattress and standing with tottering legs, a hand outstretched to glean what support it can from the wall. "I will not sleep in a bed which has held such filth. Call on one of the elves to fix the upstairs room: new sheets, a hot bath, and no dust on the vanity. Before I get there." Her watery eyes rake angrily over the other women and linger, burning, on her minutes-old daughter, before she turns and limps from the room into the cold of the corridor.

The midwife looks hard at her assistant, whose eyes sweep the floor as she hesitates, but eventually the younger woman goes quietly into the hall, following the lady of the house. Words crowd the maid's insides as speechlessness descends upon the three remaining women, not even a cooing from the child disrupting the silence. Outside, the wind rattles the window panes, tendrils of freezing drafts making the heavy velvet curtains sway in the gloom.

"The two of you are fit to see to the child?" says the midwife, all traces of pride or relief erased from her hard biting eyes. "I will return within two hours; I'm afraid the mother requires my attention for the time being. She is in no state to be walking."

"Of course, Madam," says the wet nurse with a nod. The midwife surveys them shrewdly, and leaves the room with choppy footsteps.

Unbuttoning her frock, the wet nurse lifts the infant girl's mouth to suckle at her breast. Sounds of protest echo down the corridor as the midwife and her assistant intercept the mistress. The wet nurse sticks her tongue out immaturely at the empty doorway, and the maid with shining eyes offers a soft chuckle, summoning a chair from the wall and seating herself with legs crossed while the wet nurse sits down on the foot of the bed, humming an unfamiliar song.

In her lap, the maid's fingers twist around each other. "Anxious?" asks her companion.

"Ready to sleep," she says with a small, flickering smile.

"Of course," the wet nurse coos. "See yourself to your chambers. I can handle the little dear alone."

The maid nods her agreement. "Thank you. Don't keep yourself up too long," she says, rising from the chair and sending it back to its previous position against the wall with a gentle stirring motion of her wand. In the dim light, the fleur-de-lis pattern of the wallpaper has taken on a ghostly quality, made ghostly by the light from the wavering flame of a single candle on the nightstand, threatening to go out.

Her tight shoes make no sound against the floorboards on her way to the door, and the wet nurse soon resumes her humming, the sound covering the soft rustling of clothes as the maid stills in the doorway, takes her want from her apron pocket, and lifts it at arm level, aimed toward the young nurse and child sitting safely at the foot of the bed.

Nonverbal magic had never been taught to her thoroughly enough to become a strong suit, but it matters not. Caught unawares, the wet nurse cradling the newborn girl in her arms has no time to react to the words from her companion's lips, "petrificus totalus," before each line of her body stiffens, and she finds herself incapacitated on the mattress, her lullaby silenced, the child whining at the sudden change.

Pocketing her wand one more, the maid crosses to the supine pair and looks down unfeelingly into the paralyzed eyes of the wet nurse. She can only imagine the slew of curses that would be leaving her lips were they movable. "I cannot say I am sorry for this," says the maid. "I am taking the child. I know not where she will wind up. I can only tell you that I shall return soon, and you may hold me to my word and tell the others what has conspired, here, when your condition wears off. I am not trying to slight you."

She searches the other woman's eyes, but there is nothing behind them; not so much as a flicker of recognition or feeling. Rubbing her hands together to warm them, she works the small bundled body from petrified arms, clutching the gurgling child to her chest, her hand enveloping the soft head. So innocent, so easily crushed. One last look is cast down toward the wet nurse, before the maid pulls the frock over the paralyzed woman's breast, providing her with an ounce of decency, if nothing else, pivots, and leaves the room.

The rag-clothed house elves she passes on her controlled path through the labyrinth of cold hallways don't see the escape for what it is. Their footsteps cease and their necks bend as she passes. On a normal day she might grant them a nod, but tonight she sweeps by without a word or a glance, the child remaining remarkably quiet. After a series of memorized turns and descending staircases, she finds herself at the apparition point, a designated woven carpet in a particularly cold corner between two unlit fireplaces frequently used by the servants to access the Floo network. No elves linger here.

Closing her eyes in deepest concentration, holding the child in a vise grip against her body, the maid focuses her consciousness on a spot at the edge of the grounds, the furthest familiar place from the Nott house. Her mind strains, the muscles of her body clenching down to the soles of her feet, and then, without a sound, both the maid and the newborn in her arms are gone.

She has landed too near. Her feet ache with each stride across the stone courtyard, panicked lungs expanding with each hammering beat of her heart. The child wails freely, now, the sound muffled slightly by the fabric between the maid's collarbones, and she eases her grip around the tiny body, afraid to fall, afraid to move too slowly. Across the green space and into the dense, untamed forest she flees, heels sinking into the rain-sodden ground, knees wobbling, stray twigs whipping her cheeks, the air so cold she expects her eyes to freeze over at any moment. Strands of her hair slip free of their pins, the mass of dark curls streaming in the wake of her darting form, kicked-up dirt splattering over her dress. Though wailing, the infant girl remains safe, tight against the maid's body, her elbows tucked warmly to the child's sides, the new innocent porcelain face pressed to the young woman's perspiring skin, the rhythm of her savior's heartbeat thumping through her fragile skull.

More time passes than the maid had anticipated before she spots the tree: drooping limbs, the rotting skeletons of blackened leaves which had lingered all through the winter beneath the snow and now lay pressed like ancient, eerie fossils into the mud. The only signs of the current season are the timid green buds that have sprung up betwixt the roots around the small grove. But the maid has not come here this night to admire the small blessings of nature. With the soil-covered toe of her painstakingly polished shoe, she probes around in the damp soil, until she has unearthed a pocket watch: perfectly circular, its face glinting from some unknown source of light.

Lowering the girl from her chest, she's met with a short stabbing cry, and the wind stirs a little in the rickety branches overhead. The maid looks down at the small unknowing face. Moisture beads at the corner of her eye, and trails down the crease between her cheek and her nose, dripping onto the child's forehead. Her knees bend, easing to the ground as she retrieves her wand.

"Are you ready?" she asks the newborn in a whisper when, really, she knows she is asking herself.

The maid bends her neck to place her lips gently on the infant's forehead, eliciting a brief joyful gurgle. And then, before she can delay herself any longer, she frees the small arm from the cocoon of blanket, and presses the small hand to the chilled face of the watch. "Epoximize," she whispers through her tears, letting go.

Thus the tiny hand is bound to the portkey, and in a sudden flash, the girl, the watch, and the maid's purpose, have disappeared. All that is left as evidence of the night's events are the sobs of the young woman, swallowed by the secret-keeping forest, as she kneels amidst the grey, knuckled roots of the great whispering trees, her eyes shining towards a place far away.

****************************************************************************************************

Dawn lies waiting just below the horizon when the bundled child lands, a thin ribbon of rosy light. Two robed figures have stood side by side amidst the rusty, groaning playground equipment since midnight. Any onlooker would have said that, when the child arrived from seemingly nowhere, accompanied by a short, clipped beam of light, it seemed they had been two statues, and were suddenly turned to flesh.

It is the witch, clothed in emerald green robes, who reacts the quickest, leaning down, almost lunging, to take the child up in her arms. She utters a gasp at the feeling of the tiny, swaddled body: power sizzling in the air around her like a halo.

"Albus, you were right," she exclaims under her breath.

The wizard, bespectacled and wearing dull tattered grey, asserts himself at her side, waving his wand over the child and annulling the adhesive formed between her delicate hand and the glowing pocket watch. The watch promptly disappears, and the two adults are left looking down in puzzlement and wonder at the infant. "I believe I was," answers Dumbledore.

The witch heaves a rattling breath. "Do you think she will go back to that terrible house?" she says quietly, all the normal roughness in her voice gone without a trace, leaving only breath and concern.

Her counterpart gives a solemn nod in answer. "I have the utmost faith that she will."

"And they won't trace the portkey?"

"The pocket watch will be reburied and the magic erased. This place will not be found."

"Poor, poor girl," says the witch, her mouth drawn in a stiff line, pulling the child close to her neck.

"She was well aware of the risks, Professor McGonagall. She will not submit to whatever methods they inflict upon her, and even if she were to reveal the location of the watch, they cannot know where the girl has ended up. It's a safely closed loop on both ends."

"But, Headmaster... Do you expect that they will…"

A silence envelops them, giving the witch the answer she'd already known to be true. She sniffles once, and Albus Dumbledore places a warm hand on her back. Looking down at the child, whose cheeks have pinkened in the dewy air, they both become distracted, so that when a muggle car with a loud engine passes by down the street, they're shaken back into reality.

"A punctual reminder," says the wizard, the twinkle returned to his eyes. "We'd best be off, before people start getting up and going about their business."

"Before people are woken up enough to trust their eyes, so to speak." McGonagall brushes tears away with her shoulder. "Are you handling the map, or am I?"

"Do you trust me to hold the child?" chuckles Dumbledore, his voice lilting mischievously.

A laugh warms the witch's face, her features settling back into their normal formations, the vise grip of guilt easing on her chest. "I definitely don't, now."

"Here. You've always had the knack for map reading. Let me take her." In response to the reluctance on her face, he raises a bushy eyebrow over his half-moon spectacles. "Or you could consent to apparating instead. It would be much easier on the legs and less of a risk."

"I would beg to differ," she says crisply, thoroughly back to her usual brisk self, now. "After so many years, I trust your abilities, but there is still significant risk in apparating with a newborn in tow."

He smiles at her characteristic reaction. "Professor, surely our accomplice at the Nott estate was forced to apparate with the child at least once tonight. And we would not be traced."

"Well. I am not our accomplice and you will kindly cooperate and do as I request," says Minerva, words catching in her throat. "Unless you wish for my heart to dislodge from its designated spot. I'll handle the map."

With the greatest caution, she hands over the girl, who mumbles slightly before coming to rest comfortably in the wizard's arms. McGonagall fumbles in her robes for a moment before withdrawing a folded map, staring at it briefly with furrowed eyebrows, and looking up confidently in the direction of the suburban muggle road.

"That way?" questions Dumbledore.

"Onward," she asserts.

The queer company of three drifts without sound through the sleeping neighborhood streets, the girl dozing soundly the entire time, without the influence of charms. The older wizard, impressed, sings a disjointed tune as he walks, and looks down at the infant in admiration, her locked-up power palpable all around them. Only once or twice does the witch pause and raise an eyebrow at the map, before walking onwards. On the horizon the ribbon of rosy light has widened, but the sun has not yet risen, and the streets remain empty of work-going muggles.

A cool, comforting spring breeze hums through the flowered hedges, blowing Dumbledore's beard into the child's face on countless occasions, but she continues resting, unfazed.

"I reckon we should name her, don't you?" says McGonagall distractedly at length, staring down at the map's legend. They've stopped at a corner, confused as to which way to go next.

Her counterpart ceases in his singing, and looks up toward the white-washed sky in search of inspiration. "Alice," he suggests after a minute, the atmosphere having been gracious to him. "For nobility, strength, hope, and anonymity in the world in which she must reside until the proper time has arrived for her to truly enter upon her own."

Minerva's tongue makes a tsk against her teeth and she rolls her eyes at the jumble of lines on the parchment in front of her. "My stars, Albus, how you know your way around names."

Alice offers up a soft coo, as though to express her approval of her carrier's idea, and he smiles behind his beard. "Do you mean to say I oughtn't to?"

The witch lifts her eyes from the map long enough to throw him a meaningful glare. "Don't tempt me, Albus. My wand is within close reach."

"Let me see," muses the threatened. "What would it be this time? A teacup? A gramophone, so you can force that horrendous new rock music through me as further punishment? I could forgive you for that one, if you'd take mercy on me and play jazz. A tree? That would be on the kinder side. I've always imagined I'd make a rather pleasant sleigh bell…"

McGonagall shuffles her feet slightly to the left, as though to turn down that road, but then comes to a stop and signs disapprovingly at herself once more, peering closer at the muggle map.

Albus looks over at her and frowns gently. "That time, from the candlestick, still hurts, Minerva."

A light scoff and a tied-down smile. "We won't speak of that. I didn't intentionally misplace you."

"Of course. I know you'd never intend for me to be forced into a candelabra and paraded around the corridors of the castle for all to see. How long did I burn? I can't quite remember. Slightly less than halfway?"

McGonagall's lips tighten to keep another smile at bay. "The horrified look on that poor Tuttle boy's face when he realized he'd been burning his headmaster- You're too talkative this morning, Albus. I'm trying to concentrate."

Smirking, he allows a friendly moment of silence to descend, but, too soon for her liking, he is compelled to speak once more. "Would you reach into my pocket?" he asks with a dreamy look. "I've a sudden craving for a Toffee Eclair."

"My stars," she exclaims, heaving a sigh and flinging the map through the air, glaring at him in exaggerated aggravation. Eventually, she obliges.

"Take one for yourself, if you'd like." She treats him to a hard look but does take one, placing it in her mouth and returning to her figuring a bit less sternly than before.

Soon, the chocolate having offered a sudden surge of understanding, she takes the lead down the street straight ahead. As they near the end of their journey, taking a sharp turn onto Privet Drive, a slight air of sadness takes over the trio. Even the child's sleep seems to waver and then deepen again, her forehead taut in the consternation of her early dreams. The houses begin to look identical to one another.

"Which number?" asks McGonagall, fatigue and hesitance seeping into her voice.

"Across from number four, I believe. With the cat and cabbage smell," answers Dumbledore.

A moment of hesitance hinders the witch from speaking further, but once it has passed, she slows her walking pace. "Are you certain this is the right person to be tasked with something of such gravity? I don't doubt her goodness or her knowledge, but being… the way she is… she could not possibly offer the girl the required instruction."

Understanding his companion's concerns, the wizard nods. "Your worries are more than valid, Professor, but Arabella is the most eligible person to be trusted with this task. The operation will work out fine. When the time comes for Alice to need instruction, I will send someone to perform as her private teacher. I have faith that our plans will line up."

The witch shakes her head to herself. "In the name of Merlin, I pray you're right."

****************************************************************************************************

Arabella Figg's home is easily identifiable. With its hedges, slightly less trimmed than those in surrounding yards, shutters, in near disrepair, and, of course, the distinctive odors of feline and cabbage, it is not long before the witch and wizard have invited themselves up the walkway and the emerald-robed witch is tapping gingerly on the front door.

From inside can be heard various sounds of things being put in order, the sole occupant of the house seeming to embark on a brief slalom around the living space before her footsteps can be heard approaching the front door. It whines inward, revealing a woman with youth hanging onto her face by a thread, careworn and attempting not to look it. Beyond her narrow frame lies the evidence of her exhaustion, barely improved by her brief fixing-up moments before: a kettle warbling on a stove, pillows strewn carelessly around the sitting room, two of her cats pawing boredly at each other at the base of the unswept staircase.

For a beat, she looks between the two visitors on her doorstep blankly, but then, as her gaze lands on the child in Dumbledore's arms, the recognition of the situation returns to her. "Oh, yes," she says, her voice low and pained. Her arm stretches uncomfortably toward her sitting room. "Do come inside for a spell."

"We hate to be rude," interjects McGonagall, before Dumbledore can accept the offer, "but I'm afraid we have a meeting over tea scheduled in two minutes with Minister Jenkins."

"And it would be regrettable," admits Dumbledore, "for you to be found with the two of us sitting on your couch at such an hour. Or at any hour, for that matter. It pains me to say it, but we are not, in fact, in peacetime."

Arabella nods in the Headmaster's direction, the early dawn catching her face in such a way that the deep purple circles beneath her eyes stand out odiously. Her lips are chapped and shrunken on her pale, gaunt face, and her shoulders slump around her diminished body. The witch on the doorstep looks at Arabella with a wary smile, more unsure now than ever of Dumbledore's decision to trust this non-magic woman with the child who may turn out to be the most important witch or wizard of the next century. But she can do nothing as Dumbledore hands over the girl, who rustles in her blanket, waking in the rod-like arms of her new guardian.

"Well, that's that," says the wizard promptly. "Her name is Alice. If you need any assistance, you know how and where to reach me." At this, he gives her one of his signature winks, and she nods her understanding, though his incredible warmth still fails to reach her completely. Dumbledore does a quick inspection of all the surrounding windows and doors on the street, and, deeming them unwatched, offers his arm to the witch at his side. "We must be off. Professor?"

The addressed looks at Ms. Figg, kindness leaking into her eyes, and nods to her. "Take care of the girl, Bella. We're counting on you."

Arabella Figg nods and the corners of her weary mouth tug upward in a grateful smile. "Of course," she says, in that gentle, low voice of hers. "It will be my honor."

Professor McGonagall takes one more look—which she believes, at the time, will be her last—around Privet Drive, the rooftops just now being touched by the sunrise. She places her hand in the crook of Albus Dumbledore's elbow and, with a snap, they are gone, leaving the newly responsible woman to stare across the street in a trance.

Ms. Figg doesn't resurface until one of her cats, Mr. Tibbles, rubs his soft coat along the side of her leg and mewls in complaint of the cold she's let in. She mutters indistinctly to him and secures the girl to her chest, maneuvering the door closed with her elbow and bending her creaking knees to reach the lock.

Sleeplessness has taken its toll on Arabella Figg, and what with members of the secret Order of the Phoenix apparating in and out of her house regularly and without call-ahead over the past year, it has been impossible to avoid. The framed photographs on her walls have gathered dust, the floors are long in want of vacuuming, and even the cats seem to have become more restless since the beginning of the war. It has only been a year, yet it seems she has been trapped in a cycle of terror, short-lived relief, and more terror, for her whole life.

But, perhaps, this child is precisely what she needs. Perhaps she will be rescued from her previous life by this new arrival.

Fashioning a makeshift crib from sturdy pillows, the woman places Alice on the couch, Snowy the cat settling himself on the arm and staring beady-eyed and fidgety-tailed, at the strange being which has stolen his designated napping spot. Arabella busies herself in the kitchen, retrieving the special milk, which had been sent to her a week before, from its packages in the freezer and thawing a serving over the stove.

The child seems to speak to herself, staring at the unadorned ceiling. Stirring the milk, tapping on the frozen parts with a wooden spoon and studying the intricate fractals, Arabella shakes her head. Never before has she heard of an infant with open eyes, so soon after birth. The newfound responsibility tingles through her magicless blood and she shudders at the thought of failing Dumbledore, failing the future of the Wizarding World, failing the child—Alice—herself.

Once the substance is warm, she pours it from the pot into a plastic nursing bottle and, securing the cap, turns off the stove and shuffles her feet over the carpeted floor. With caution she seats herself on the couch beside the child and lifts her into her lap, placing a not-too-stiff pillow at the side of her thigh to support the girl's neck. Looking into those newborn eyes, curious and full of something which refuses to be named, Ms. Figg feels something rising up within her that had been lost since a time buried long ago in memory. She feels a stirring of hope.

A smile upon her face for the first time in months, Arabella situates the nipple of the bottle between the child's lips, watching as she quickly latches on to the plastic. For a long time, over three hundred ticks of the grandfather clock in the upstairs hall, they consider each other with deep interest. Eventually, Alice's eyelids become droopy, and she nods off against the woman's chest.

"That's better," whispers Arabella. "Now, you wouldn't mind a little morning news on low volume, would you?" She turns to look at Snowy, who stares with intensity at the small pink creature in his owner's lap. "You'll just have to get used to her," Arabella says to him, with a smile so wide it makes her neglected, chapped lips crack and bleed; but she pays them no mind.

She stands, carefully, so as not to disturb the sleeping Alice, and goes to the television—a decade old, with antennae pointing upwards like those of an insect, and speakers that have never quite worked correctly—turning it on.

It doesn't take long for her to see that something is awry, but it takes long enough that, by the time the static has sped up and a hissing sound has begun to emanate from the speakers, it is too late for anything to be done. Snowy's ears flatten against his head and he jumps with a bumping sound onto the floor, hurrying into the kitchen for refuge. Ms. Figg retrieves the child (the unknowing catalyst) from the couch, covers her vulnerable head, and cowers down just in time behind the sofa against the far wall.

The explosion is heard all up and down Privet Drive.

And in the master bedroom of Number Four across the street, Petunia Dursley pulls her flamingo-pink sleep mask from her eyes, sitting up in bed with a start.

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Spells used in this chapter:

1\. "Petrificus Totalus," a spell which causes temporary paralysis.  
2\. "Epoximize," a binding (as in: adhesive) spell.

I hope to see you back for the next chapter! My fingers are fidgeting to start typing more, already...

Thank you for not plagiarizing my writing!

On_Errand_Bad

6,231 words

Monday, 12 October 2020


	2. II | Stemming

Note:

Greetings, fair readers! It's surprising to be writing to you again so soon—this story is very fun to write, and there is so much more coming up, which I just can't wait to put down! We will be exploring young Alice's development in this chapter, but more characters and events will show up in chapter three.

I will be underlining the names of original characters in the cast, just to clarify what is mine and what is not. Also, though I originally planned to only list new characters in the cast list, I think that might get confusing for both me and you, so I will just list every character involved in the chapter.

MY EXTREME GRATITUDE goes out to Avadakada, Charmed2100, and Neon5678 for your instant support of the story, and to une-papillon-de-nuit, for your heartwarming and encouraging review! Feedback is like air to me—so, truly, thank you all.

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling the Utmost Venerable.

Chapter Two Totally Optional Cast (in order of appearance)

Mackenzie Foy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Young Alice  
Kathryn Hunter . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Arabella Figg  
Fiona Shaw . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Petunia Dursley  
Richard Griffiths . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Vernon Dursley

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II | Stemming

1980  
Privet Drive

From the beginning, the girl proves herself to be anything but a normal young witch. Somehow growing faster than she should be, she looks as though she is five years of age, despite the fact that she is only three. And she is frighteningly intelligent and wise—so much so that Arabella Figg often finds herself subject to chills of the unknown when struck by the deep and faceted stare of the young Alice. The woman, at one point, driven to worry by the sheer speed at which her charge progresses in knowledge and in magic (magic being the more frightening of the two, as it is still unbridled—the books she lets the child read, at least, can be controlled), has to contact Dumbledore about the severity of the situation. But when she does so, he responds only with a simple, mysterious, It is to be expected. She may even out within a few years' time, in a steady but secretive penmanship across the parchment.

What troubles Ms. Figg more than anything is the headmaster's use of the word may, and for days and months after (during which she hears not another peep from him on the subject), she is troubled by a fear that the drastic day-to-day changes she witnesses in Alice may never slow or disappear.

To make matters worse, the girl is still three years of age when her magic begins to manifest itself dangerously.

Before that point, it had only been expressed in simpler, more manageable, but still worrisome outbursts. There had been the instance with the blender speeding up, when birthday cake batter had ended up all over the kitchen walls and Ms. Figg's face. Then had come the short-circuiting of the lights, beginning during her first year whenever she cried from sadness or confusion. Any number of objects might take unexpectedly to the air whenever the girl was in a lofty mood. Once, a car out in the street had broken down when she'd stubbed her toe on the stairs and screamed. The telephone never works unless Alice stays in the other room for the duration of the call. And, of course, there had been the incident with the television on her very first morning.

All of these, and countless more strange events, would not be soon forgotten, and as a precaution, the curtains are always drawn over the windows. But today, something else brews within the girl's powerful core. Something neither of them expects.

Monday mornings always go the same. Alice wakes at an all-too-early hour and remains in her bedroom making the hands on the clock speed up and slow down and run backwards at her whim until the smells of breakfast (pancakes, sausages and fresh fruit when Ms. Figg is in a generous mood; cereal when she isn't) waft up the stairs and under the door. Alice comes down into the kitchen in a whirlwind, pulls on Ms. Figg's arm until she bends down so she can give her a smacking kiss on the cheek, and sits herself at the table with the daily paper, gnawing her lower lip over a Sudoku puzzle until the food is sat in front of her. They tuck in, sitting across from each other, the woman asking the girl which new books she'd like checked out from the muggle library.

On this particular Monday, Alice requests The Tempest, a play from her favorite surprisingly-muggle writer William Shakespeare, any educational volume revolving around the Napoleonic wars, and, of course, another mathematics textbook.

Despite being just shy of four years of age, Alice's intelligence, alongside her magic, has flowered quickly and fully, only continuing to expand by the day. With each new morning, Arabella Figg must reign in the tremendous shock she feels at the thirst for knowledge, and talent for retaining it, which is trapped inside the small, undeveloped body (though two years or so older-looking than its actual age) of her charge.

"Are you sure you need another maths textbook?"

"I finished all the problems in the other one. I'll get it for you from my room," says the girl, taking a large mouthful of pulpy orange juice before leaving the table and running up the stairs, feet thudding loudly on the carpet.

Now, Ms. Figg's four cats (Mr. Tibbles, Snowy, Mr. Paws and Tufty), have always been hypersensitive to loud noises. Thus, since Alice's first arrival in the house had caused the television to explode extremely loudly, they have, since then, associated the young witch with unpleasantly loud sounds. At best they ignore and avoid her, at worst they form a front against her, depending on her mood towards them on any given day. But regardless of the specifics, none of them like her, and she doesn't like them, either—a mutual dislike punctuated by the fact that they are forced to deal with each other all the time, except for when Alice is let into the backyard, which is rare.

On this particular morning, in Alice's rush to reach her room and retrieve the maths textbook for Ms. Figg, she fails to spot Mr. Paws running across the hallway from one open door to another directly in her path. She almost stumbles over him, sidestepping and barely missing his tail. In fear he scampers, flings himself around and scratches at her ankles viciously before leveraging his body against her lower calf, making her accidentally trip in her haste.

She falls loudly on the floor, making Mr. Paws scramble away but just a short distance, lingering to witness the fruits of his spiteful labor. The entirety of Alice's knee is burned instantly by the rug and she hisses at the pain, looking over at the cat with a look of pure hatred in her eyes.

Suddenly, Mr. Paws's body throws itself against the wall and rebounds again, landing on the floor. The cat mewls in pain, a harsh and deep sound that sends a shiver of fright through Alice's body. And for a second, she is afraid, thinking that he is dead—and realizing at the same time that, somehow, though she hadn't intended it, the startling event had been her own doing. She reaches out tentatively to touch him, but he stands up before her fingertips can reach his fur, managing to scratch her deeply on the forearm before limping away with a growling meow into another room, leaving her alone in the hallway.

All of this transpires in just ten or so seconds, and suddenly the shock and speed of it, combined with the stinging pain in her scratched ankles and forearm, and her burned knee, makes the girl break down in tears. Moments later the lights go out all through the house, and she curls up on the floor, scared of something horrible which resides in very close quarters-scared of herself.

Arabella Figg, registering the series of sounds, both human and feline, calls up to the girl from downstairs, hurrying through the darkness of the kitchen and climbing the stairs, her heart rising into her throat to see Alice curled on the floor and sobbing, so. She goes to her and gets down onto her knees, inspecting the girl's scratch wounds and the bleeding rug burn on her knee. Alice's limbs tremble, and her body suddenly tumbles into the woman's arms, her skin sizzling with power as she embraces Arabella fiercely.

The girl calms her sobs in order to tell the woman what had transpired, and works through her fall, her anger, her shock and self-hatred in due course as the woman cradles her head against her chest, craning her neck into the other room and watching Mr. Paws absentmindedly licking himself on the long-unused guest room bed.

"Am I a bad witch?" says Alice after a moment of quiet. "Dangerous, like the ones that make you hide me away in the house?" But just as soon as the words have left her mouth, another, much darker thought, occurs to her, causing another layer of tears to prick stingingly at the corners of her eyes. "Are you hiding me in the house to keep me out of the world because I'm the bad one? To protect them from me?"

"Oh-" Arabella says, trying to sound reasoned and wise but only succeeding in sounding pained at the sudden outpouring of fear and emotion on the part of the young witch. "Absolutely not, my darling. Absolutely not. You are not evil, Alice. You are just extremely... special, and the world is not ready to see your power, yet… The world is going to need you someday, and then you will be ready. But for now, you have to wait-"

"But I hate it!" she wails, her sadness quickly turning to anger as she pries herself out of the woman's no-longer-comforting grasp and stands up, blood trickling down her knee, circling her wrist, and speckling her ankles. "I hate it!" she repeats, screaming, now, "I hate being special! I hate safe! I hate you!"

She falls silent again suddenly, her tongue tumbling in the wake of her uncontrolled words. She spends a moment trying to rationalize the connection between the red-hot hate and fear in her brain with the sudden heavy coldness in her mouth, but then goes blank. All she knows, all that matters, is that she doesn't like what she said; that she doesn't quite know who she is, but knows that whoever it is, she's afraid of it. Her seven-year-old body trembles, injured and not just from Mr. Paws's scratches and her hard fall.

"That's okay, Alice," Ms. Figg says to her. "It's okay."

Slowly, the girl allows herself to curl back down into the woman's arms, and to be held for a while until the storm of her tears abates and the lights flicker back on one by one.

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By the time another week has passed, things return to a sense of normalcy—if strained—around the house. Ms. Figg continues to homeschool Alice in the muggle way. Mr. Paws recovers from Alice's magical outburst, though sometimes he will go more slowly than usual down the stairs, and he seems to hold no grudge against the girl—in fact, he is more friendly towards her than he ever had been before, even allowing himself to be stroked and purring against her ankles if she's particularly quiet on the given day.

What Ms. Figg considers to be the girl's greatest flaw is her inability to focus on her studies, apart from the esoteric muggle history that interests her. She seems more engrossed in fiction than in current muggle events—and the woman cannot blame the girl. There is such a degree of separation in all things muggle from the Wizarding World—the world to which the girl truly belongs. How could she be anything but bored, if not distressed and disheartened, by a constant influx of muggle information, and not a single dose of magic?

Alice herself feels stagnant and stuck in the non-magic of the house around her; trapped as by a cell. She knows what she is missing only because she reads, and sometimes she will become angry at her books, at the free-rolling Scottish hills in Shakespeare's Macbeth, and the boundless mischievous oceans that set the scene for ancient Greek epics. Each day that her mind is pumped full of muggle information, she only thirsts more for knowledge of the world she knows to exist, but which Ms. Figg will tell her nothing about.

To cope, she requests more and more muggle literature from the library; literature on magic, hoping that there might be some parallels to be found between muggle speculation and the true world to which she belongs. It begins with Shakespeare and the Greek myths, then progresses to Dracula and books full of strange mythical fairies and creatures.

Arabella Figg is reluctant about some of these volumes. Yet, she feels that the girl achieves a sort of peace through them, and knows that they serve as a lifeline (no matter how tenuous and sometimes laughable, or so it seems to Alice) to the world in which the girl truly belongs. The woman suffers a crisis of faith which only builds as time passes, in Dumbledore's 'plan,' which seems to have brought no good to the girl. Sometimes when the angst is too much to bear she will send out a letter telling him of their state, and asking him to tell her what to do. But always the letters are answered vaguely, or not at all.

In the meanwhile, Alice is still not allowed out of the house because of her powers, and has no friends of her own—has not, in fact, ever met another person her own age. Her domain is the interior of the house and, when Ms. Figg allows her because the neighbors are away, the backyard.

Her guardian is ruled by a fear that Alice might get them 'caught' if they were out in the world and her powers suddenly got away from her. And Alice, in turn, is ruled by the knowledge that the woman is perfectly fair and right in being plagued by such worries. For it is true that she has no control over her abilities. And from this realization, comes a spiteful aggravation on the part of the girl:

If Ms. Figg knows about the magical world she so diligently conceals and blocks from Alice every day, and truly cares about her well-being and happiness, too, and desires for her to be able to venture beyond the four walls of this house… then why doesn't she simply teach her how to do the controlling for herself, thus banishing the risk and causing her the great relief and freedom which would set her at ease with herself and her world?

One evening over their meal, Alice asks Ms. Figg just that, reciting the words just as she'd been practicing them in her head all that day.

Arabella, listening to the question, feels her face drain of color. She'd never thought that she would have to explain herself to the young witch, never thought that her non magical nature would be anything but perfectly clear from the outset. But now, she sees she's been proven wrong, and she finds herself startled thoroughly by the question—oddly so, for one so simple, one she should have expected.

"I couldn't teach you, my dear," Arabella says, hoping that this might suffice, that the girl might already have a creeping feeling about her guardian's nature, a feeling which could be confirmed without any explicit statement of fact on Arabella's part. But in reaction to the words, Alice only looks more confused than before, and disappointed.

"Why won't you do it?" the girl says stiffly, her voice forcing itself through her throat as it starts to swell with the threat of tears.

"Because…" Arabella listens to herself say, in disbelief. "Because I can't."

Alice puzzles over her guardian's words and face for a moment. Her first instinct is to react, to argue, to deny. But then she realizes, from the woman's tone and the look in her eyes, that her words had been serious and literal, not false stepping-stones to her usual excuse. Alice realizes, for the first time, with a sensation of all her blood rushing to her head, that Ms. Figg cannot do magic.

In front of her on the table, her water glass shatters, the ice clattering onto the table and the water seeping into the tablecloth. But neither of them moves to clean up the mess. Alice's face is not angry, but startled, upset, and confused; her body silent and still. Inside of her is coiled a feeling that all children must go through once: a strange, sinking sensation, which causes the shade of everything around her to shift just slightly-whether to a darker or lighter hue she cannot tell yet.

She'd never considered the possibility that she was totally alone. She'd looked up to Arabella, assuming her to be a magical being such as herself, who had learned to control her magic, who knew just what it felt like to be in Alice's exact position, and comforted her from a place of experience and strength. But now the girl sees, at last, how alone she has been all along.

A tear slips down the young girl's cheek and she excuses herself from the table, quickly returning to soak up the spilled water, and sweep the broken glass pieces into the wastebasket. Then, silently, she returns to eating her meal.

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The backyard soon becomes her most treasured place of refuge and release. Arabella allows her to go out silently at her leisure, unlike before, and she can spend hours every day sitting or laying on the grass, without even a book full of magical whimsy to keep her company. It seems to the woman that, quite suddenly, the myth and the hope have been leached out of most everything for her charge, and a harsh realism has taken their place.

But then, one day, the woman is vacuuming the carpet inside the house when she looks outside into the backyard and sees Alice with her hands in the soil of the ground. Before she knows it, the girl's hands have created seeds, and suddenly, blooms start to spring up from the yard all over, the shoots quickly flowering.

The woman can hear Alice's gasp of awe and panic over the buzz of the vacuum. Outside the girl considers trying to rip up the flowers, frightened that Ms. Figg will be startled and worried by the sudden flowers which she had not intended to create whatsoever. But when she turns around slightly to see if the woman has been watching her, she finds not an expression of terror or worry on Arabella's face, but one of calm and grace; a motherly wrinkle puckering at the corner of her mouth as she smiles.

"You're not angry? I'm sorry…" the girl starts.

"No, to the contrary, I am very happy," the woman interjects. "You've made a beautiful garden."

One final fragment of doubt: "I didn't do it on purpose."

"In that case," says Ms. Figg, smiling, "it's even more beautiful."

However, by the next morning, the beauty of the garden has expanded to a point of danger-the backyard has transformed in just a few short hours into a jungle of bright and diverse flowers, some unrecognizable completely to the woman. Some have already grown so tall that they peek over the fence and out to the street, and the woman plans hurriedly while she and Alice eat breakfast, to find a lawn mower, or to find some other way of rooting them all up, as soon as possible, and without giving their creator cause to be offended.

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She may have coasted through her school years with sub-par marks, but Petunia Dursley had never been a stupid woman. And she knows very well that such an array of flowers, and at such an unnatural height, has no business peeking over the backyard fence of the neighbor across the street. Her eyes narrow and her neck cranes, a cat scoping out prey. She turns from her pan of omelette in the direction of her husband Vernon, expecting him to see it, too, and to take issue with the nature of the flowers, but he is staring down mundanely at the morning paper, and so she is left to look out the window, herself.

Ever since the first day that old Figg woman's distant cousins had dropped off their infant child, never to return again, strange things had been happening inside that house across the street. It had been only the first morning when some explosion had taken place, causing a terrible ruckus all up and down the street, ending her sleep early and bringing firetrucks to the scene at no later than half past seven in the morning. Later, Petunia had discovered the exploded object to be the television set, when the Figg woman had had it taken away by a handyman who had shown up a few days later to dispose of it.

Petunia knows she could name any other number of strange events surrounding that household, but doesn't care to think of any of them, now, for what puts her over the edge this morning is the sight of those tall flowers peering over the gate across the street—flowers of which there had been no sign yesterday, or for weeks before.

"Vernon!" Petunia says to her husband in a stage whisper.

The man offers up a grunt, the grunt he gives her when he thinks she's probably just asked him a question, and wants to make a sound which could answer either way—surely a tactic he thinks is very wise but Petunia sees directly through and takes as yet another piece of evidence to prove how entirely boring her husband is.

Ignoring him, she finishes breakfast quickly, and then, without announcing the purpose of her errand, she goes out the door of the house, eliciting no reaction from Vernon, even when she slams the door (though not hard enough to make the neighbors notice). She picks her way across the street in her slippers, her pregnancy bulbous in front of her, stretching the fabric of her nightgown, and shuffles through the dewy grass, craning her neck up and over the fence to behold the jewel-like heads of the flowers in the Figg woman's backyard—ranging from tropical-looking flowers to autumnal, thistle-like blooms.

Something about this strikes her both as completely unacceptable and strange, but also as interesting, and she thinks for the first time how nice it might be to be shown around that backyard full of flowers by the Figg woman, how nice to take a few cuttings for herself to put in a vase on her kitchen table…

She approaches the front door and knocks three times quickly. The Figg woman answers promptly, and Petunia has to hide her disappointment—she's always found something wonderful in a long wait between her knock and the opening of a door; ample time to press her ear against the wood, to guess at what might be going on inside, what the person behind the door might be rushing to hide.

"Hello," the Figg woman says simply upon opening the door and finding her cross-the-street neighbor on the doorstep. "What can I do for you this morning?"

"I was admiring your flowers from my window, and I just had to ask—how do you get them to grow so quickly, and in such profusion?"

While she speaks Petunia cranes her neck slightly over the woman's shoulder, trying to look into the house further; but she is disappointed, seeing no sign of the Figg woman's distant cousins' child. In fact, the interior of the house seems so spotless—complete with a cat lying in a patch of early morning sun by the window—that Petunia feels a stabbing disappointment: her curiosity dimmed, and the knowledge that she should probably return to her own house and tidy up taking center stage.

"Oh, those," says the woman in the doorway. "They're just some potted plants from a friend who needed a place for them to be kept a short while. They'll be gone after she comes to get them."

"Of course," says Petunia, her curiosity hanging on by a thread; but still hanging on. "Well, they are very beautiful."

"Good day, to you," says Ms. Figg, turning her away politely enough, and Petunia turns around, going back across the street with her slippers flopping against the pavement.

But her interest, naturally, is rekindled once she finds herself again in the dust-layered dimness of her own house, Vernon snoring lightly with an empty plate of omelette in front of him—and she hurries to the window again, pulling up a chair and planting herself there, watching the flower-heads sway over the Figg woman's fence while she drums her fingers on her swollen belly.

She spends the rest of the day perched at the window, waiting for the woman's acquaintance to come and take back the flowers. At one point, her condition forces her to get up to use the loo, and to her bitter dismay, when she comes back to the window, the flowers are completely gone—she's missed it.

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The wheel of time continues to move, more slowly, it seems, than ever before. In the summer of 1980, Dudley Dursley is born across the street, an insufferable boy who screams and whines all the time. Alice takes to viewing the world, at night, from her window—the only time when she is allowed to open the window-blinds and look out freely on the street.

During the daytime and carrying on into the evening, the street is full of people coming home from school, from work; cars and bikes and pedestrians, people her age on roller skates and skateboards and bicycles. Exciting enough, but while the sun is out she always must squint through the blinds, a terrible hindrance that only perpetuates her consternation and unquenchable desire.

But at night, though there is little to see, she becomes far more liberated. And as time goes on, she comes to pay attention to the small, secret whisperings and flickering movements of the night and its creatures. The wind stirs the hedges, lights sometimes flicker out and then back on, putting on a show for her, alone.

Once, she thinks she sees an owl flapping through the darkness, and at another point, a cat with strange markings about the eyes, prowling around the corner and sitting on a nearby fencepost, its eyes glowing in the yellow moonlight, seeming to look right up at her for a long time before walking off again into the dark.

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I am so grateful for any feedback you may have, however brief! I hope Petunia came across in this chapter—I imagine her as a very lonely and self-conscious woman when she's not actively gossiping or bullying. Next time: Harry Potter arrives at Privet Drive by flying motorcycle...

Thank you for not plagiarizing my writing!

On_Errand_Bad

4,600 words

Tuesday, 13 October 2020


	3. III | Lemon Drop

Note:

Thanks to EMyra for following the story, and to une-papillon-de-nuit, once more, for your uplifting review!

We are still stuck on Privet Drive for this chapter, but now the plot will start to crank into motion... Beginning with the clandestine meeting of Dumbledore, McGonagall, and Hagrid, who has, in tow, The Boy Who Lived...

On a side note, it's kind of weird, but though James and Lily Potter are killed on the 31st of October, Harry is delivered to Privet Drive on the night of November 1st... I've decided to stick to that date, even though continuity is a little shaky. Hope you don't mind!

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling the Utmost Venerable.

Chapter Three Totally Optional Cast (in order of appearance)

Mackenzie Foy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Young Alice  
Kathryn Hunter . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Arabella Figg  
Richard Harris . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Albus Dumbledore  
Maggie Smith . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Minerva McGonagall  
Robby Coltrane . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Rubeus Hagrid  
Asa Butterfield . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Young Harry Potter  
Daniel Radcliffe . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Harry Potter  
Harry Melling . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Dudley Dursley

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III | Lemon Drop

1 November 1981 – August 1992  
Privet Drive

It is on one such street-spying night when she is ten years old, that Alice witnesses something quite unexpected, indeed.

From the early morning of that day, the world outside her window seems changed—as though some great event has happened, which she cannot place or guess at. Upon waking up and looking out through the narrow slit between the blinds, she spots the now-familiar cat with strange markings about the eyes, sitting on a gate across the street, reading a newspaper. The cat is reading, she's sure, for it stares down at the paper for minutes before the Dursley man comes out of his house around eight o'clock-at which point the paper promptly disappears into thin air.

All day long, there are odd people about, wearing cloaks and robes of all different colors, a few of them walking quietly down the street in pairs at noon, and more coming through towards three in the afternoon. Not to mention the multitudes of owls swooping through the air in broad daylight, crowding the roofs and seeming to converse momentarily before taking off again into the blue sky. On the television, there are reports of shooting stars in Kent.

In the early evening, a disturbance arrives in the form of a letter. It comes tumbling down the chimney and into the ashes of the fireplace, stopping their already distracted game of scrabble in its tracks.

Ms. Figg stands up slowly from the table and leans over, plucking the envelope out of the fireplace and brushing off the layer of ash before unfolding the parchment and reading it. Alice watches her from across the room, her mind no longer focused on figuring out what word she might form from her nonsensical jumble of letters. Arabella reads the brief note, and then reads it again, and again.

He is gone. It's over. We've lost Lily and James Potter. Their son was the one. More to come from Dumbledore.  
\- Alastor

She has to read it upwards of five times before her mind allows her to understand and believe the message. A wave of exhaustion comes over her with crushing force, like when one begins to come down with a cold suddenly, the body giving itself an excuse to become sick at the first sign of rest after a long and arduous period of stress. The first thing she does is fold the letter and place it in her pocket, to ensure that it will stay out of reach of the girl. The second thing she does is to remind herself to inhale, and do so. The third is to turn from the room and climb the stairs to her bedroom. Once inside, she shuts the door and locks it quietly, collapsing into her bed and falling asleep in an instant, before the tears of shock and loss have a chance to come.

Alice, left downstairs, looks up after the woman for a time before venturing to follow her. But once on the second floor, realizing that something must have happened, something connected to the strange happenings around the country, she decides against disturbing the woman, and instead goes quietly into her own room, shutting the door.

And so she ends up staying in her own room all day long, too deep in thought, and too interested in the happenings outside the window to grow hungry or bored. Through all of it, the cat remains, sitting like a statue on the fence, looking intently toward the far corner of the road, expectant.

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It's midnight, and Alice's eyes are straining from tiredness, when a white bearded, burgundy-red robed, half-moon spectacled man arrives out of nowhere on the street corner. By now, the girl has lifted the blinds away from her window, given the cover of night, so she has no difficulty seeing him in her peripheral vision, and squinting as he takes a few more steps down the street, before coming to a stop again.

She watches, enthralled, as he removes something that looks like one of Ms. Figg's lighters from the pocket of his robes, and holds it up into the air. Alice gasps quietly as, one by one, all the light posts up and down Privet Drive go out-their light traveling in contained balls across the night to the upheld object, into which they disappear. In just seconds, the street is nearly pitch black, but for the light from the moon, and she has to squint even harder to watch the mysterious man pocket the object and proceed down the street, closer and closer.

Suddenly, Alice's interest is piqued even further than before. All day she has been trying to piece together the strange events, and this is the largest of all her clues—this man is someone who is like her; someone who can do magic. Something suddenly stirs in her heart, and her head fills with a single hopeful thought: perhaps she has been found, perhaps this man is here to rescue her, to take her to her rightful world...

But her thoughts are soon interrupted, and she becomes quickly pulled back into reality. The cat who has been sitting on the fence all day has been replaced by a woman, wearing dark emerald robes, a pointed hat, and square-shaped spectacles.

It promptly becomes clear that the two are more than acquainted with each other as they fall into step side by side, proceeding slowly down the street, closer and closer to Ms. Figg's house. The man with the exceptionally long beard takes a yellow lemon drop candy from his robes pocket and offers it to the woman, who declines, before putting it in his mouth.

Eventually their slow walk comes to a stop and they stand still in front of the house across the street, the house of the Dursleys, continuing to converse. The woman seems to ask question after question, and the man nods his head up and down gravely. Alice's eyes strain through the darkness as she tries to discern what they might be saying, but she cannot hear, and it is too dim to possibly try to read their lips.

But just moments later, a rumbling sound arrives to her ears from somewhere behind the house, somewhere in the sky, and she runs to the window at the other end of her room, looking up to see what looks like one large headlight parting the drifts of blue clouds above. The rumbling grows louder and louder, and soon enough, she is running back to the other window and looking down into the street, where the flying motorcycle lands, its engine going quiet as its giant rider dismounts.

Alice's heart pounds in her chest loudly as she watches him approach the two normal-sized people. It's not until she's looked closely for another minute, that she realizes the giant, leather-coated, frizzy-haired man has been holding a small blanketed bundle—a baby.

The white-bearded man, at length, takes the bundled child from the giant man's arms, and the latter seems to diminish in the darkness, a deep and mournful wail suddenly breaking from his throat. But the sound is just as quickly silenced by the woman in the pointed hat.

The three of them talk for a minute before moving in a slow procession up the walkway leading to number Four's front door. The man who had put out the lights sets the boy down on the doorstep in his blanket, and pulls a letter out of his robes, setting it on top of the sleeping child's chest. They all look down at him for the next minute, and then finally the man with the long white beard leads his two companions back towards the street.

The giant man with wild black hair is the first to depart: getting back on his motorcycle and flying away into the sky, the sound of the engine ebbing gradually into silence.

The woman in green robes is replaced suddenly by the cat with spectacle-shaped lines around its eyes, and slinks away and around the corner at the end of the street.

The only one left, the man in maroon robes looks up and down the street for a few measured seconds before, suddenly, his chin tilts up, and he looks directly at Alice through the glass of her window. At the realization that she, the spy, has been discovered, the girl becomes frightened, her heart jumping into her chest for a moment. She slowly starts to step back from the window, nervous to be looked at, sure she's just broken some rule, or seen something that was anything but intended for her eyes.

But the odd man stops her from hiding away by putting a hand up into the air, signaling safety. She steps back to the window, peering out curiously. He tilts his chin down, and reaches into his pocket, drawing out another one of his lemon drop candies. With his other hand he reaches into a secret place and produces a slender wooden wand.

Alice feels her jaw slacken, the entirety of her body trembling with excitement and a kind of relief as the candy is made to hover in midair, controlled by the man's wand, which makes delicate flitting motions. Slowly the candy floats up through the air until it is just outside her window. She can only stare at it in awe, looking down at the man. He flicks his wand gently, making the candy tap once, twice against the windowpane, prompting her to open her window and take it.

Carefully, she does so, a small night breeze, damp and cool, blowing back her hair, stirring up the still air of her bedroom, of her life. She reaches out one hand, and the man standing on the street lets the candy drop into her open palm, smiling as he watches her place it in her mouth.

Alice lifts up a tentative hand and waves at him.

Albus Dumbledore waves back.

Then he goes back down the street towards the spot where he'd appeared earlier. He turns around, and returns the lights to the lamp posts, a slight glint of light glittering on his spectacles before he waves at her again, the hem of his robes swaying in the breeze. And, a split second later, he is gone.

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Once she's registered the finality of his disappearance, Alice turns from her window to find every single object in her room—aside from the bed—floating in midair. She takes a moment to dilute her extreme excitement and happiness, and soon the objects settle back into their original positions without a sound. But inside of her she still kindles a flame of wonder, only growing, expanding so fully that she thinks her chest might soon be too small to hold it. She lays down on her bed, and sucks on the candy until it's completely gone, staring at the ceiling and replaying the memory of the wizard with his delicately flicking wand—the first time she'd ever seen magic performed the proper way.

But after a minute of rubbing her tongue thoughtfully against the roof of her mouth, its bumpiness perpetuated by the lingering taste of the lemon, she suddenly remembers another key player in the event just passed: the bundled infant. Still laying on the doorstep, across the street.

Alice returns to the still-open window, and looks down towards the abandoned child, out in the cold night. He doesn't cry at all, is totally silent, on the contrary, in a deep sleep. But she still cannot help her worry. Something in her tells her to help him, in any way she can—some part of her which remembers what it feels like to be a swaddled baby, left out in the cold.

Before long her concern for him wins out, and she leaves her bedroom, going across the hall and tapping on Ms. Figg's door after finding it locked.

"Ms. Figg," she whispers loudly.

"Alice?" Arabella moans softly from the other side of the door.

"Ms. Figg, there's a baby on the doorstep across the street. A group of magic people came and left him there."

The woman gathers herself up from her bed and goes into the girl's room across the corridor, looking out the window at the boy—who, she knows, could only be Harry Potter—on the doorstep of Number Four, Privet Drive.

"It's cold outside. Will he freeze?" Alice worries aloud.

Arabella Figg shakes her head no. "He will be perfectly safe... Who did you say put him there?" But before Alice can answer, she suddenly realizes that the girl's window has been left open. "Why is the window open?" she asks.

Alice shrugs her shoulders. "The man gave me a lemon drop."

After a moment of thought, Ms. Figg smiles to herself, and says, "Albus," under her breath.

"Who?" says the girl, curiosity reaching another peak. "Is that the man's name? The man with the long white beard and half-moon eyeglasses?"

Arabella half-opens her mouth, almost answering, before she remembers herself, and gives the girl the look she gives her whenever she starts asking questions she knows she shouldn't answer. "Go to sleep, Alice, dear," she says quietly, bending down to kiss the girl on the top of her head. "And remember to close the window."

Alice nods her head in the affirmative, and lets her guardian leave the room, closing the door around behind her.

But Alice ends up staying up all through the night, keeping her eyes peeled open, watching the quiet bundled form of the boy on the Dursleys' doorstep as though he will perish if she looks away.

The night is long, however, and she almost starts to doze off by the time dawn pinkens the sky. She would certainly fall asleep where she stands, but instead she is jolted into further wakefulness, as Petunia Dursley opens her front door, preparing to set out the empty milk glasses, and screams out loud at the sight of her nephew on her doorstep.

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Over the next eleven years, Harry Potter comes to be a frequent guest—or, should we say, refugee—in Ms. Figg's house. He comes to stay an hour or two, or longer, when the Dursleys haave to go somewhere to humor their son Dudley, and don't trust Harry to stay in the house alone.

Petunia sends him across the street on those days with a measure of relief, happy to have that constant reminder of her freak sister out of her immediate surroundings, but also with some excitement: perhaps Harry could be like a spy, infiltrating that curious Figg woman's house, and will tell her about what happens inside. But there's always something that stops her from trying to draw out information from him.

Harry and Alice quickly become good companions, despite the disparity caused by the two-year age difference between them, and Alice's intellectual maturity. She soon weaves herself into his childhood as a vital thread, though she doesn't do so intentionally. The hours or days when he comes over to the house are like paradise to the girl, who has been starved for companionship all her life, and is more than happy to mentor, make innocent mischief, and play games with the young boy.

The one burden upon her shoulders is the absolute necessity of keeping her powers under lock and key while he is in the house. Once, she comes close to slipping up, when the two of them have been overtaken by a long bout of joyful laughter and her lamp starts to lift off of the bedside table. But she quickly manages it and young Harry doesn't notice a thing.

Ms. Figg has told her only that Harry, too, is of the magic folk, but that he doesn't know it, yet, and cannot be told. Alice is confused by this to say the least—Harry doesn't make anything fly on accident when he is happy, and when he is sad or quit, no lights flicker out in the house, the way they do for her. But there is something odd and exceptional about Harry that she cannot deny; something manifested in that lightning-bolt scar in the center of his forehead. She asks her ever-growing list of questions over breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and before bedtime, but Ms. Figg keeps her insufferable silence. And though she longs to show Harry her magic, to have a partner in arms, she keeps from doing so.

A scar had formed from the deep scratch Mr. Paws gave her on that day when her magic had lashed out in response to her pain and anger. On days when she longs to show Harry her powers, she will find herself staring down at that thin white line on her forearm, reminding her how dangerous and frightening it had been to lose control, to cause another creature pain with her magic, even by accident. So, she comes to the decision not to tell Harry about herself, or about himself. She knows doing this makes her a hypocrite, for that's just what Ms. Figg had done to her, but she does it anyway; for the first time, understanding something new about her guardian's intentions.

Months pass, and turn into years. Alice is the one to teach Harry how to read, and how to fend off bad thoughts. But there are experiences he has in the outside world which she can never help him to process: bullying at the hands of his peers at the public school and at the hands of his own cousin, insecurities from simply being outside in the world. But they navigate through the years together, waving at each other and making gestures of hope and support from their windows, which face each other across the street, before going to bed each night.

When Alice turns thirteen years old, the growth in her appearance finally slows down to match her real age. Harry is just a month shy of his eleventh birthday, and she is hard at work planning a secret celebration for him, with his favorite sweets, some books she thinks he will love, and a new game she's invented. But, as the last day of July approaches, her plans are derailed suddenly by the appearance of owls, crowding the street, causing a ruckus, perched on Ms. Figg's own roof day and night, all of them carrying letters tied to their wiry ankles and dropping them into the Dursleys' house in any manner possible.

And one day, while she watches from the window, the three Dursleys with Harry in tow hurry out the front door of their letter-stormed house, pack themselves into their car and speed off down the road.

A day comes and goes. And another. And another.

Alice soon becomes worried at Harry's long-lasting absence, and finds herself wringing her hands to herself, the lights flickering on and off through the long days. A week later, Ms. Figg receives a letter, brought to her by a tawny owl which balances on the windowsill, reads it, and assures Alice that Harry is safe at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

"What's that?" Alice asks, her relief at the news of Harry's safety threatened by the sudden introduction of this School into her awareness.

"A school for young magic people," answers Ms. Figg ambiguously.

"Then why don't you send me there?" Alice says, after a minute of consideration, keeping her sadness and confusion under control.

Arabella Figg stays silent.

Over the next days, Alice finds herself staring at the scar given to her by Mr. Paws, more and more. Eating is difficult for her, as is sleeping, and she cannot seem to do much of anything with herself, ceasing in her reading, and incapable of retaining the information she receives from her guardian in their sessions of homeschooling (which have already begun to seem more than pointless).

Ms. Figg recognizes the symptoms of a dangerous self-loathing, and quickly scrambles for a solution, which she finds soon in the form of a letter from Dumbledore, suggesting that Harry and Alice maintain a correspondence throughout the year.

Alice jumps at the opportunity to pen long letters to Harry, which are sent back to Hogwarts around the ankle of the tawny owl that brings Harry's notes back to her. But even this can do little to cure the deep gnawing jealousy she feels, and the pain that keeps her awake at night, doubting whether Ms. Figg had told the truth when she assured her that she was not a danger to the other witches and wizard that belonged to her world.

She passes the year in a constant pain from a hole which seems punched out of her center. But when, that summer, Harry arrives back home from the magical school, the wound seems to be patched up, if only slightly, by his presence.

The Dursleys suddenly enforce much stricter rules for Harry than they ever had before, and he is not allowed to go across the street to stay at Ms. Figg's house at all. So, for the first few weeks of summer they are confined to making gestures at each other from their windows, only guessing at what the other might be trying to communicate. Alice stays up long into the nights trying to figure out how to surpass these barriers—and one night, it comes to her: something so simple that she thinks herself stupid for not thinking of it far earlier.

It starts with the memory of the wizard—whose name she now knows is Albus Dumbledore, the headmaster of Hogwarts school—flicking his wand and making the lemon drop candy levitate its way up to her window. And soon Alice realizes that if she can only figure out how to do it herself, how to make a notebook, for example, fly over to Harry's window, then they will be able to write to each other.

The next morning, bright and early, she sits up next to the window and waits until Harry wakes up. When he does she gets his attention by waving her arms in front of the window, and he looks out at her, making their gesture for 'what is it?'

She takes a pencil from her bedside table and with it, makes a flicking motion, as though it were a wand. She does it once, then twice again, until understanding dawns on Harry's face. He holds up a finger for her to wait, and she watches as he bends over, rifles in a dresser drawer, and draws out a long, thin box, from which he takes a wand—a real wand, Alice realizes with a skip in her heartbeat.

She makes a motion with the pencil, encouraging him to use his wand somehow, to solve their dilemma. But Harry sakes his head in the negative. Alice is more than upset for the remainder of that day, incapable of understanding: she simply doesn't believe that after a year at a magic school, Harry would come home not knowing how to use his wand.

But regardless, she understands that she must solve the problem herself. She knows that the thing to do is to figure out how to make a notebook levitate with her mind, and tries to do so with extreme focus, but no matter how she stretches and strains, she simply can't. Over the days as she continues trying to train herself to channel her power towards one specific aim, she becomes increasingly exhausted, and finally after a fruitless week has passed, she collapses onto her bed and cries from her incapability.

Her feelings roil inside of her—she needs the notebook to fly, she needs it more than anything else in the world. With the flood of tears and emotion comes a release of stress, and after a few minutes, she looks over towards the notebook to find it in midair—it had happened on its own, as though in a response to her need. Allowing herself to remain at ease, the girl practices keeping it in the air, and then makes it fly around the room slowly, letting her will lead it without turbulence on a track of her own devising.

By the time night comes, she's found complete control over the object, and when Harry comes into his room and approaches his window, she sends the notebook out into the night, causing it to travel across the gap between their windows and arrive into the waiting hands of Harry, whose eyes are bright and wide at the realization of Alice's powers.

Harry takes the book and writes something in it, then holds it out the window. Alice makes it fly back across the street to her, opens it, and reads his words: "I'm not allowed to use magic outside of school."

Seeing his words written there, and feeling the magical power—her own magical power—sizzling off of the notebook, Alice looks up at Harry and grins widely, her heart taking wing.

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Every night they stand at their windows and write back and forth to each other in the flying notebook. They write through their commonality, both feeling trapped in their houses, Harry longing to return to the world he's found and Alice longing to join him in it. She is enthralled with the tales he tells her of Hogwarts and the things that took place over the course of the year. She believes his every word, wondering at the wizard history he tells her—though he never, ever tells her who he truly is, that he is the Boy Who Lived, the one who defeated Voldemort.

That summer, Harry slowly grows depressed despite the lifeline provided to him by a friend who doesn't approach their friendship with the knowledge of his celebrity. Throughout the whole summer, he hasn't received a single letter from Ron or Hermione.

Alice feels slightly spiteful towards Harry when he complains sadly of this to her. He writes about how displaced he feels in the muggle world, how desperate he is to get back to Hogwarts as soon as he possibly can. But she knows that he only has to wait the summer, whereas she may be waiting for years... But for the time being she soaks up Harry's stories of the Wizarding World, imagining his experiences to be her own—though she is always proved to be a fake when the magic he describes fails to work itself into her dreams at night.

On the early morning of Harry's twelfth birthday, before the sun comes up, Alice sends a package of sweets across the street to him. But the candies do little to cheer him up: the Dursleys, he writes to her in their third notebook, are inviting their friends the Masons over that night, and he will be confined to his room for the whole evening. Alice understands that Harry's misery springs not from the fact that he will have to be in his room, but from the Dursleys' cruelty to him.

She makes the shape of a heart with her hands that evening before he has to go downstairs to be lectured by his uncle, waving at him encouragingly before he leaves the room.

Once he's gone, Alice lingers at the window, absentmindedly watching the street as the sun sets and dusk ensues. She looks up and down Privet Drive, wondering whatever happened to the cat that used to linger on the fence-the cat which was really a witch.

But her thoughts are interrupted when she senses an abrupt movement in Harry's room across the street. She turns to look through the window, and finds that Harry hasn't come back through the door. But in his room, standing on his bed, is a strange looking creature, like a miniature person with wrinkled skin, a bald head, giant orb-like eyes and a long pointed nose. After a few moments, the creature starts to jump up and down on the bed, and Alice watches in mingled wonder and worry, until Harry opens his bedroom door and enters upon the unexpected scene.

She watches with furrowed eyebrows as Harry converses with the strange, surely magical creature on his bed, and the latter begins promptly to hit himself on the head with the base of Harry's lamp.

Mr. Dursley comes into the room soon, Harry hiding the small person in the closet, only letting him out again after Mr. Dursley has left, shutting the door behind him. Alice watches them converse further, and then suddenly, notices the creature pull out a stack of letters from its ragged clothes. The girl gasps quietly as she infers these must be the letters that Harry had been missing from his friends at Hogwarts. The strange creature must have been keeping them from Harry somehow.

Just moments later, the creature runs suddenly out of Harry's room, and the boy chases him out the door, after the bundle of letters he'd been wishing for, for so long.

The next morning, Vernon Dursley sets a ladder against the side of the house and puts bars over Harry's windows. But Alice can still manage to maneuver the notebook through the bars, and she is shocked to read what had happened: the creature (whose proper name was a house elf, and who was called Dobby), had kept the letters from him in an attempt to keep him from going back to Hogwarts. When Harry had refused to agree with him, the elf had caused a cake to fall on top of the Dursleys' guest's head, and then disappeared, leaving Harry to be blamed for the catastrophe.

For a long time, Harry is confined to his room day and night, being given meager meals three times a day and being allowed out twice to use the loo. Alice does her best to improve upon his miserable days by contributing more tasteful food to add onto the meager plates of food the Dursleys give him, but in reality there is little she can do to ease the pain of his predicament. He soon begins to worry whether he will be capable of escaping when the time comes for him to go back to Hogwarts in the fall.

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One early morning, though, in the beginning of August, Harry is rescued. Alice wakes before the sun has risen to a rumbling sound somewhere in the sky—a sound familiar to that of the engine of the motorcycle which had brought Harry to Privet Drive in the first place all those years ago. She runs to her window and squints up at the sky, seeing two headlights, this time, appear out of the clouds.

It is a light blue flying car, and it swoops down into the space over the street below, pulling right up to Harry's bedroom window. Alice squints out at the group of redheaded boys in the front seat, knowing that these must be the Weasleys, who Harry had told her about.

She watches, intrigued and excited by the sudden turn of events, as they hook a rope to the bars over Harry's window and drive down the street a ways, pulling the bars clean of the house, and taking away a sizable part of the window itself, too. Her heart thumps in worry and anticipation while Harry throws his trunk into the back of the car, and passes his white owl Hedwig into the car. The boy himself comes last, stepping over the gap between his windowsill and the car just as Mr. Dursley throws open the bedroom door, entering upon the spectacle and running to the window, grabbing onto Harry's leg before he can make it all the way to safety.

A few stretched-out seconds of angst pass, but soon enough the car flies away, carrying Harry Potter inside of it, and Vernon is left to tumble out of the window, landing in the bushes beneath the window.

At first, Alice has to keep herself from shouting aloud with happiness at her friend's victory. But soon, the adrenaline wears off, and frays to the point of no return. Within a matter of days her entire disposition changes: she becomes depressed and darker than ever before, not wanting to do any work, feeling constantly ill and exhausted. She retreats into herself, almost dormant, knowing she will never be rescued, will never really enter upon that magical world to which she belongs, which she so desires to be let into. Letting Harry's words give her hope had been her own fault, and she believes herself to be foolish, now, for letting herself kindle such hope in her heart in the first place.

The girls menstrual cycle arrives for the first time as August turns to September. Ms. Figg hopes that all of this anxiety and horrible emotion in her charge had only been perpetuated by this new development in her changing body. But once the first cycle has passed, it becomes clear that this hadn't been the case, and Alice goes right back to being depressed and sad.

She cries all the time—except for when she cannot—and never feels anything but anxious and sick. She barely eats anything at all, and spends her nights and days laying down on her bed, refusing to close her window, even at night. She leaves it wide open, hoping that someone might come to steal her away...

But no-one does. So, Alice remains... and remains... and remains...

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Spells used in this chapter:

1\. I like to think that Dumbledore used some sort of warmth-bubble charm on Harry before leaving him to stay the night on the doorstep... I don't have a name for it, but there it is.  
2\. "Wingardium Leviosa," the levitation spell. Dumbledore doesn't actually say this spell aloud, but it's what he uses to send the lemon drop up to Alice's window.

With this chapter, I wanted to make sure that I built a solid foundation for Alice's friendship with Harry, but there were some times when I had to hurry through it (or skip over a few uneventful months) for the sake of your brain cells. (I wasn't about to dump eleven whole years' worth of storytelling on you). I hope it didn't feel too rushed!

I thought that having Alice's depression spring from the morning Harry is rescued by Ron and the twins in the flying car would give the scene an interesting new perspective. It's an extremely happy one from Harry's point of view, but for someone who is left behind without hope of a similar rescue... not so much.

Even so early into the process, I find myself looking forward to the next chapter from the moment I post the one I've just finished! I hope you feel the same, reading them! Please let me know what you think of the story—something short and silly is far better than nothing at all!

Our favorite Remus Lupin is showing up in the next chapter, and I am so excited!

Thank you for not plagiarizing my writing!

On_Errand_Bad

6,100 words

Wednesday, 14 October 2020


	4. IV | Lone

Note:

Thank you so much, SweetieCherrie, and DoctahG, for following the story! I am so excited to see so many readers showing up—seriously, you all makes my life so much brighter, even when all I have is your country to go by! Again, thanks to une-papillon-de-nuit for your review of chapter three!

I just wanted to note that I did decide to change the casting of Dumbledore starting with this chapter, the same shift that was undergone in the movies, just to maintain some continuity, there. You guys might think the transition between the two actresses I've provided for Alice is a bit choppy-I've gone from young Mackenzie Foy to Anya Taylor-Joy-but I hope it's not too confusing, and that if you are imagining the actors I list in the cast as you read, you approve of the choice. Let me know how you feel!

Additional casting note: While David Thewlis is the actor cast as Remus Lupin in the films, he is quite a bit older in the third movie (released in 2004) than the actual fictional character Remus would have been when the book takes place (1993). Also taking into account that Prof. Lupin's birth year is 1960 and Thewlis's is 1963, I've found a film that would show Thewlis at Remus's age at the time this chapter takes place. (If you can't tell, I care a little too much about continuity). If you're looking for an accurate visual, look up the 1995 film Total Eclipse. I think this look matches our Remus perfectly, if you ignore the hairline and the premise of that film, itself.

I'll also put it out there that the actor Domhnall Gleeson (who happens to be the son of Brendan Gleeson, who played Mad-Eye Moody, which is kind of neat) could totally be Remus, too, and is actually the actor who was in my head in terms of appearance while I was writing this chapter. So, if you're more partial to him… Just putting that out there.

Okay, this author's note is officially too long! Let's get on with the story!

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling the Utmost Venerable.

Special Disclaimer: When Dumbledore told Remus "Help will always be given at Hogwarts to those who ask for it," this was a direct quote from J.K. Rowling's work. Also, the part detailing Remus's backstory when he first enters Dumbledore's office is paraphrased from his Pottermore page.

Chapter Four Totally Optional Cast (in order of appearance)

David Thewlis / Domhnall Gleeson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Remus Lupin  
Sir Michael Gambon . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Albus Dumbledore  
Anya Taylor-Joy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Alice  
Kathryn Hunter . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Ms. Figg  
Anthony Hopkins . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Kidnapper

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IV | Lone

Early Spring 1993  
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry / Privet Drive

Albus Dumbledore re-folds the latest letter from Arabella Figg and sets it down on his desk with a sigh. Outside the tall windows of the headmaster's office, the morning sky is streaked a salmon pink. A small group of black birds rises from the bridge and flies away over the rolling highlands.

The room is warm despite the cold season and hour, but a chill goes through the old wizard's bones—accompanied by a dark inkling about events yet to pass, one of many such premonitions which have plagued him recently.

Fawkes the Phoenix ruffles his feathers and chatters quietly on his perch across the room, and prompted by the show of restlessness, Dumbledore's thoughts shift to the troublesome events which have plagued the school over the past year—events tied to the Chamber of Secrets. And then, just as soon, his worry paves a pathway back around to the anxious words of Arabella Figg, still fresh in his mind from the letter he'd received earlier and had procrastinated in reading.

He's received plenty of letters laced with insecurity and anxiety from the woman, but this one had set a precedent of legitimate concern. As a non-magical person, she'd claimed, she simply cannot help young Alice any longer—either in terms of her magical development, or her bitter isolation. 'She needs a magical companion,' the woman had written in a shaky hand, 'and a teacher. I understand your stance on not having her at Hogwarts will not shift, but, Albus... I beg you to figure something out, for both our sakes.'

For minutes on end, the headmaster paces slowly around the room, looking out the mullioned windows over the grounds, uncomforted by the warmth of his familiar surroundings. He watches as the Whomping Willow shakes off its newest layer of snow in its winter morning ritual, fog laying over the Forbidden Forest and the lake in the distance.

But his pacing and nerve-fraying worry are soon interrupted by the sound of stone purring as the staircase into his office starts to move. Dumbledore seats himself down in his chair awaiting whoever his visitor may be. But when the staircase curls into view—along with the man standing on the second-to-last step—he stands up again, directly.

Remus Lupin nods to the headmaster, averting his gaze as he maneuvers his lanky, six-foot-two frame into the entryway of the office. There's a thin, harried look to him, his face tired and peaky, cut across by an old scar. He is thirty-three years of age, but looks much older standing there huddled in his worn, tweed jacket, carrying a carpetbag which contains all his possessions.

"Remus," breathes Dumbledore.

The addressed looks up for a split second and then returns his gaze to his tattered shoes. He'd promised Dumbledore that he would be prompt for their scheduled meeting two days before, but he'd been nervous, and put it off, then putting it off for a second day out of embarrassment for not showing up. He makes a mumbled apology, trying to formulate a sensical strand of words, but incapable—he'd suffered his monthly transformation on the eighth of March, just a week before, and his mind and body both have yet to banish the resulting exhaustion.

Even as a younger man, he had been hard pressed to recover in fewer than three days, but lately, the difficulty has been perpetuated by other circumstances that cause a strain on his existence. In the past years, he's lost three friends and both parents, and has lived hand-to-mouth, jumping between menial jobs to survive, and to avoid being found out because of his monthly 'illnesses.' Already he lives in a constant daze, but the recovery period after transformations has slowly grown, and he fears that, soon, if something doesn't change, he will be rendered inept in all areas of his life.

And this is why he has finally convinced himself to arrive in Dumbledore's presence this morning.

Nearly a minute has passed, now, since the headmaster spoke, and Remus Lupin tells himself silently that he ought to say something in order not to be too awkward. "Professor Dumbledore," he manages.

But with the name comes a wave of sudden warmth, better than a fresh hot butterbeer, or a thick, heavy blanket after returning from a cold nighttime stroll. All at once, the guest remembers who it is he is standing before, remembers the role the older wizard has played in his life. A collection of warm images float through his head: Dumbledore, knocking on his parents' door when he was just shy of eleven years old, playing Gobstones with him before the fireplace, and inviting him to Hogwarts, promising to provide him with a safe place to undergo his monthly transformations in Hogsmeade. Dumbledore, with a few simple words and a smile shrouded by a then-grey beard, opening up Remus's entire world, leading him into a new reality where he no longer had to live in fear and shame, a reality where he had friends.

The awkward spell of initial silence gone, Remus Lupin walks across the room, hindered only by the exhaustion in his legs, climbs the three stair steps to the main level of Dumbledore's office, and embraces his old headmaster like a boy might embrace his father after coming home from a long and arduous journey through the biting cold world. Remus is also the one to step out of the embrace, before he has a chance to start crying.

"Please," Albus says, the early morning light filtering through the white strands of his beard. "Sit down, Remus."

He does, and Dumbledore follows suit soon after. Remus looks both large and miniscule sitting in the chair. Dumbledore's eyes flicker to a bowl of Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans serving as the centerpiece on his cluttered desk. "Care to take a gamble?" he says, gesturing to them.

"Thank you, sir, but I haven't had a sweet in ages," says Remus, the words coming more easily, now. "I believe even the Vanilla Ice Cream flavor wouldn't sit well in my stomach, let alone Dirty Sock." He looks up, making an effort to sit straighter, and considers the old wizard across from him. "You look quite different, headmaster," he says sensitively.

Dumbledore smiles and leans forward, as though passing along a secret. "I could say the same of you, Remus," he says with a wink. "And please, call me Albus. You've more than earned it."

Remus attempts a smile but knows it looks like a grimace, and quickly pockets again, letting face relax. He knows what he's come here to say; knows what he needs to say. But he suddenly doesn't want to say it—wishes he were somewhere else.

"You can just ask, Remus," says Dumbledore gently at length. "Please, don't be so tense. Seeking help is never something to be ashamed of."

But though his words are a comfort, Remus can only shake his head. "I'm sorry, Professor—Albus. I shouldn't have made arrangements to meet, in the first place... It's an entirely absurd request." By now, his inner turmoil has started to sting so much that he considers standing up and fleeing.

But Dumbledore stops him with a fatherly but disabling look over his half-moon spectacles. "Please, Remus. Help will always be given at Hogwarts to those who ask for it."

Dumbledore expects that the younger wizard's purpose here is to request Wolfsbane, which would ease the monthly process of his transformation, enabling him to stay within a locked room for the duration of the full moon, without risk of causing harm to others.

So the headmaster is surprised when Remus finally works up his courage and says: "I'm here in search of a post."

Dumbledore raises his eyebrows slightly.

"I know," says Remus, words tumbling over each other. "I shouldn't have even considered—"

But the headmaster interjects. "No. That is a perfectly reasonable request, and one that I am overjoyed to hear. But it was, indeed, unexpected." The old wizard settles back against his chair and considers Remus for a moment before a smile pricks at the corner of his mouth. "I have a feeling," he says with a glint of amusement in his eye, "that there will be a professorial post opening up next year."

Remus had not intended to mean a post of that level, and is shocked to learn that Dumbledore would so soon put such amounts of trust in him. He opens his mouth to protest, but the headmaster raises a finger.

"Until then, however," Dumbledore continues, "there is an errand of particular import, which I've been looking for someone to send on. And I think, Remus..." he considers him again for a moment before nodding his head in agreement with himself, "I think that you are just the wizard for the job. You see, I received a letter, this morning-" he picks it up, holding it to the light "-from Arabella Figg."

Recognition flashes in Remus's eyes, and he reaches out to take the folded parchment from Dumbledore when it is offered to him. Quickly, he reads it over, then looks up and says, "What is this? Who's the girl?"

"Alice," the headmaster explains, "was rescued from the house of Nott-" another flash of recognition behind Remus's eyes, laced with memories of the boy who had bullied him in school, who had grown into one of the Dark Lord's Death Eaters "-rescued from the house of Nott on the night of her birth. Since then, she has stayed under Arabella's guardianship. She is very gifted magically... but there are other factors, Remus, which keep me from bringing her here for school."

"How old is she?"

"Nearly fifteen." Remus's eyes widen. "Yes, Remus," admits Dumbledore, "I feel terrible about it, as well. She has been confined her whole life to that house on Privet Drive."

Remus nods in understanding of the situation, putting his trust, as usual, in his past headmaster and lifelong mentor. "Is she acquainted with Harry Potter?" he asks, aware of the proximity to Ms. Figg's home to Number Four, Prive Drive.

A small smile asserts itself to Dumbledore's face. "I imagine so," he muses. "But-" his eyes darken again "-Harry is here for more than half the year, leaving her quite alone."

The headmaster doesn't say so aloud, but Remus picks up on the silent implication: Remus knows a thing or two about feeling cast out, too. And though he's never met this young and isolated witch Alice, he feels an immediate sympathy towards her.

"She needs help," Albus says, "coming back to herself. Understanding her relationship with magic. Remus, I wish you would do this favor—both for me and for the girl. And, really, for yourself. If you would accept."

"Of course I accept," says Remus, quickly, allowing his instinct to settle the case for him, before insecurity can carry him away.

"Not to say," Dumbledore says, picking a candy bean from the bowl, "that I wouldn't simply delight in having you here at Hogwarts next year. But-" he places the bean in his mouth, smiling: he's picked a pleasant flavor "-I do have one condition for you, Remus."

"Of course, Professor," says the younger wizard. "Anything at all."

Dumbledore smiles and tilts his chin down, peering at his younger companion over his spectacles. "Quit those awful muggle cigarettes."

After an uncomfortable beat, Remus's shoulders relax and he agrees to the bargain with a nod. "I will."

Dumbledore smiles, his whole beard moving up. "Well, then. Two problems solved at once." Remus stands from the chair, Dumbledore following. "Do yourself a service..." Dumbledore advises. "Find the Room of Requirement and get some sleep before you depart. You're in no shape to safely apparate."

Remus Lupin expresses his intense gratitude, assuring the headmaster that he will do just that, and after a deep nod of his head, he descends the magical staircase, which turns downward in its magical spiral until the man is out of sight.

On the other side of the circular office, Fawkes bursts suddenly into flames. Dumbledore watches a moment until the ashes settle and, from a little pile of them, a baby phoenix emerges, bright eyes looking around, considering the world. The wizard smiles again to himself and sits down at his desk to pen a response to Ms. Figg.

***************************************************************************************************

She receives the letter by way of the chimney on the seventeenth of March, Alice's fifteenth birthday. The arrival of the letter is quite an event, and once Ms. Figg has consented to let the girl read it, it comes to overshadow the gifts she'd bought for her in celebration of the day.

"I believe," the headmaster of Hogwarts had written in the letter, "that not only will young Alice benefit extremely from Remus's mastery of magical skill, but you will both surely delight in his company."

The girl is overcome by a constant wave of extreme excitement. It's hard to believe, all the way up to the minute he knocks on the door, and beyond. They are to have a boarder. And not only that, but a magical boarder—one who has been tasked with teaching her magic.

Remus Lupin arrives two days after they receive the letter. He is a lanky man, too saturnine for his age, and he shows up on Ms. Figg's doorstep at the civil hour of eleven, wearing patched clothes and carrying a single suitcase, hair appropriately unkempt. He is the most tired and sad-looking person Alice has ever seen, and for a moment she is slightly unnerved by the sight of the thin scar cutting across part of his face.

But he musters a smile for her, when he looks down at her and holds out his hand for shaking.

The girl has to think back to a television program she'd seen, in which this gesture had been made, before she can remember what she is supposed to do. But when she does remember, she smiles shyly, reaching out her own hand and shaking his cautiously. Her first handshake. He is the third person (after Ms. Figg and Harry) who she can ever remember touching, at all.

"My name's Alice."

"Hello. It's very good to meet you. I'm Remus."

"And you must be very exhausted," says Ms. Figg. After a few mumbled words and transitions, she shows him up to the second floor, and to the guest room.

The cats, who had scattered into their hiding places upon the stranger's arrival, emerge again once he has gone upstairs. Alice and the four of them stand there for a few minutes, considering, a suppressed excitement bubbling over into an uncontainable glee in the girl's heart.

Their guest sleeps all through the afternoon and into the evening. When Ms. Figg has almost finished preparing the evening meal, Alice wanders into the backyard garden. Over the years, she has learned to control the flowers, so that they only grow as high as her knees, and are contained within one corner of the yard. But it is just as beautiful and diverse as that original garden which she'd unintentionally created years before, flowers which have no business growing in that soil or climate, flourishing under her magical supervision.

She kneels down on the grass, aiming to change the color of one of the many blossoms, spurred on to try controlling her magic further, eager to try and impress the visitor. But even after staring and straining at one particular flower for what seems hours, there is no change in hue—not even the slightest discoloration—and she frowns in disappointment at herself.

When Ms. Figg calls her in to sit down for dinner, she refuses to go with her pride shred completely, so she plucks a few delicate flowers from the ground (new stems and buds quickly growing back in their wake), compiling a little bouquet for the visitor.

Remus comes downstairs just as Alice is filling a little crystal vase with water and setting it and the bouquet in the middle of the dining table, to serve as a centerpiece. Standing on the final stair, the wizard smiles as he is reminded of his mother Hope, and how she would always do little things like that, to make their hope as beautiful as possible, since he was so frightened of going outside as a child.

"Those are very beautiful," he says to the girl. "Where did you get them?" He follows the direction of her pointer finger out to the backyard, where he sees a garden flourishing—but not dangerously so-in the corner. "I see," he says, raising an eyebrow slightly to indicate to the girl that he knows she was the one to grow it—and not with muggle seeds and a trowel.

As they seat themselves at the table, Remus thanks Ms. Figg profusely for the meal, making it impossible for her to deflect his gratitude. They tuck in after Ms. Figg has formally welcomed Remus at the table.

Over dinner (which starts off quiet—not awkward, but full of unsaid things, full of the knowledge of how much is going to be said, and before too long) Lupin brooches the subject: "I take it Harry Potter lives across the street in the summers."

Alice looks over and up at him with wide eyes and a questioning mouth, and the wizard quickly sees that what he'd hoped would be a cautious and casual segue into conversation had been anything but. "You know Harry?" says the girl in disbelief.

"I know of Harry," says Remus with a smile, looking across at Ms. Figg, whose eyes have darkened slightly. "Everyone knows of Harry."

Alice feels a wave of confusion tumble over her, so intense that black spots start to bloom in her mind. Remus looks at her, sensing her consternation, and realizes that he'd overstepped a line. But it's too late to retreat, now.

"Why do they?" says Alice.

"Arabella..." says Remus at length, looking across the table at the woman. "May I?"

After a moment of hesitation, Arabella realizes that this is the end of the line—there is only so much she can keep from the girl for so long—and she nods her head yes, starting to clear the food from the table.

"I'll start with Harry's parents," Remus says, leaning back in his chair and offering Alice his full attention. "I knew both of them very well, Lily and James. They were my best friends at Hogwarts."

"You went to Hogwarts?"

"Yes, of course," he chuckles. "Everyone goes to Hogwarts." (A beat—he realizes that he's just slighted her, and reminds himself to be more considerate. His job is most definitely not to isolate her further). "Sorry. They were friends of mine in school, and later on we fought alongside each other in the war-"

"The war?"

Remus's eyes widen and he looks into the kitchen at Ms. Figg, but she refuses to look back at him. He figures that, yes, if the girl hadn't yet been told about her true origins, than she wouldn't have been told about the war, either. He chooses at that moment to omit Death Eaters and the Nott family's involvement from the storytelling—that will be for another time.

"I will go out to retrieve a Wizarding history book or two for you in due time," he says to Alice, "but for now, this will suffice. He gathers a breath, and begins his diluted story.

"The Wizarding War began at the height of Voldemort's power—he was a very dangerous wizard, who once attended Hogwarts, like the rest of us. He desired domination and dominion over other beings over all else, and to purge the wizarding world of 'Mudbloods'—wizards or witches with both mixed magical and muggle (non-magical) blood. His actions drove our world—and the muggle world—into a state of panic. The horrors lasted many years, which I won't go into now. But it all came to an end in late October, twelve years ago. Voldemort—He Who Must Not Be Named—heard of a prophecy, foretelling that a boy born at the end of July would defeat him. Driven further into madness, he went to Godric's Hollow, where the Potters and their son Harry—whose birthday, as you know, is the thirty-first of that month—were living. He killed James and Lily, and tried to kill Harry... but when he tried, he couldn't. Harry was still alive, and Voldemort-the most powerful wizard known to our kind—disappeared."

Ms. Figg has long ceased making noise with the dishes in the kitchen. A quiet falls over all of them, but especially Alice, taken up in the chilling glory of hearing the legendary story for the first time.

"Where did he go?" she asks after a long moment.

Remus can only shrug his shoulders. "We don't know. Some say he died, some say..."

Alice looks down at her plate, no longer hungry. Silently, inside her yead, she pieces all of it together and understands that her friend who resides at Number Four across the street in the summertime is something much more than he'd been letting on. For an infant child to defeat such a powerful, dark wizard, was not a simple feat.

"He's famous in our world," Remus says, interrupting Alice's inner waterfall of questions, springing up from her new knowledge. "I think it might be understandable that he wouldn't tell you about his origins," he says gently. "I imagine he might find refuge in having a friend who doesn't know all that about him."

Alice nods her head in understanding—but she isn't worried about seeking empathy with Harry at the moment. Suddenly, with Remus Lupin, comes a cosmic enlargement of her world, both frightening and empowering. Her head is pumped so full of questions, fears, insecurities and excitements that it feels like she is going to explode...

But instead some of the lights flicker, and after a few stuttering clicks from the bulbs, all the lights go out at once, leaving them in total darkness, apart from the twilight coming in through the door to the backyard. Alice holds her breath in embarrassment at this display of magical immaturity.

Ms. Figg's voice comes to her from the kitchen, comforting. "Remember the breaths we talked about," she says to her.

Alice inhales slowly, holds the air in her lungs, and then lets it out with a light tingling sensation in her head. In, hold, out. Until the lights, one by one, flicker on again.

Remus considers the girl's face, impressed by the level of power she's just displayed—but also saddened; reminded of his own younger self, when he had experienced such difficulty controlling his emotions, being totally overcome by them. That is something, he figures, he still hasn't grown out of, and doubts he ever will.

Alice feels her cheeks grow red from embarrassment, and promptly she distracts herself by forcing her face to brighten. "What are you going to teach me first?" she says eagerly to Remus, her manufactured excitement quickly turning into genuine eagerness.

"Alice," Ms. Figg says softly in a quiet reprimand.

But, "That's alright," Remus says. "I planned... not to teach you anything yet. To sit back and observe for a bit beforehand." The girl's face falls in stages. She can't imagine being subjected to such embarrassments over and over again, for who knows how long. "I can tell you're very eager," he says, "and that's wonderful. But I really can't teach you anything until I have an idea of who you are."

"Won't I need a wand?" Alice says, the argumentative part of her rearing up, though she's still wary of Remus Lupin, the third person she's ever really met.

"Eventually, you will," he answers patiently, "but I think it would be best for you to harness your raw powers on your own, before trying to channel it through a wand. It would be dangerous to you, and to everyone around you, to jump into that so quickly."

The girl forces her disappointment to dilute herself and smiles inwardly when she realizes she'd done so without making so much as a single light flicker. Something about the wizard's presence makes her feel understood and at rest. "Okay," she agrees.

After helping Ms. Figg with the dishes, the woman suggests that she go up to bed. Alice feels a hint of annoyance at this, but doesn't argue, and controls her magical reactions. She finishes cleaning her plate and then bids both Ms. Figg and Remus goodnight before ascending to her room. Long into the night she stays awake, straining her ears to hear the two of them speaking in low voices in the kitchen, but she can't make out any specifics, and before too long, sleep takes her under.

***************************************************************************************************

The next morning after breakfast, Remus asks to see Alice's garden. She obliges him, and goes out into the backyard, him following, bringing his glass of water with him.

"The flowers are wondrous," he says to her. "How did the garden start?"

Alice wants very badly to lie, and to tell him that she'd had total control over their growth from the beginning. But she has a feeling that he would know if she wasn't being truthful, and so she tells him the story. "I was just sitting outside one day and suddenly flowers came up all over the whole yard. They grew very fast, and in just an hour they reached up over the gate. Ms. Figg was scared that the neighbors would see, and so I got nervous, too, and a bit later, the flowers just went away-" she snaps her fingers "-like that."

Remus nods his head up and down slowly. She looks up at him. "Would you please teach me just one spell?" she says quietly after a minute.

"I'm sorry, Alice," he says carefully. "I won't. Not yet."

Though his words had been kind, Alice had set her heart on learning something instantly upon his arrival, and her disappointment had only built over last night, after what he'd said over dinner. Suddenly, before she even knows what's happened, her piercing disappointment and anger has made the glass in Remus's hand split into pieces, which fall to the grass.

Her upset feeling is all at once replaced by worry that the wizard might be upset at her about the broken glass—his hand isn't cut, but there is some water on his clothes. However, he doesn't address the accident in that way, instead approaching it as means to prove his point to her. "Look," he starts, keeping his voice measured, "your potential is entirely uncontrolled."

"I have control!" she says through gritted teeth, some of the broken pieces on the ground fracturing even further.

Remus looks down at the shattered pieces between his shoes, and looks back up again, wearing a light smirk. "Do you, now?"

"Yes," Alice asserts. "All through this summer I made a notebook fly across the street to Harry's window, so that we could talk without leaving our houses-which our guardians wouldn't let us do-and it didn't fall. Not even once."

"Well, that's very impressive," says Remus carefully but firmly. "But what if I were to tell you that you could only control that notebook so perfectly because accomplishing that task was necessitated by your loneliness?"

Alice's eyes widen slightly—he can see directly through her. Now she's really listening.

He continues: "When witches and wizards start out, magic only serves us in times of need, like an instinct, or a safety net. Of course, if you were isolated enough, and desperate enough to communicate with Harry, then your magic would step up and enable you to reach your goal. It was the same way with your garden. Ms. Figg was afraid that the neighbors would see, so you became afraid, too, and the flowers disappeared. If you need it enough, you can have control over something, some of the time. Magic can be a form of self-defense. But I am here to give you control over everything, all the time." He takes a breath, and chuckles at himself. "Well-over all the things a person can expect to control."

Alice's shoulders sink a little bit, looking down, embarrassed that she had doubted his method now that she understands what he's been getting at.

But Remus smiles at her, and pulls his wand from his pocket, piquing her interest. "Look," he says to her gently, before turning his attention to the broken glass on the ground, and flicking his wand at it. "Reparo," he murmurs.

Alice gasps in wonder as the glass suddenly mends itself back to its original form, not even a trace of the break in the glass. Remus leans over and picks it up, suddenly admiring the uses of magic, as he witnesses Alice's wonder. "Easy to take it for granted, after a while," he says to himself.

"I'm sorry," Alice says, still staring in glorious shock at the perfect glass.

"There's no need," Remus says. "Look." He holds the glass up to the morning sun. "Good as new." Alice, the burden lifted from her heart, smiles widely at him.

***************************************************************************************************

At first the process of controlling her power is arduous and exhausting. More than once, when trying to adhere to some of the subtle guiding points he's given her for harnessing her emotions, she's broken down completely and all the lights have gone out at once. Once, the radio station that is playing dissolves into static and smoke starts furling from the machine.

"When you're angry," he says, using yet another hypothetical to guide her mindset in the intended direction, "instead of letting the table set itself on fire, direct your anger towards the fireplace and let the fire start in a controlled place, instead."

In theory, visualizing her magic as magic that was going to take place, anyway, and visualizing herself as the person who is responsible to moving it to a safe location, is helpful. But in practice it feels impossible to implement.

Over the first week and a half, it seems to both of them, that every piece of advice he gives her is counterproductive. Alice finds herself becoming more angry and distressed, and more frequently, than ever before. In just nine days, she's broken twenty glasses, caused two radios and one telephone to stop working, and set her bed on fire twice. All four cats have been in consent hiding, and haven't dared show themselves in the open.

But then, on Lupin's eleventh day in the house, it finally works. Over dinner, Alice feels a twinge of anger ebbing at the corner of her brain, and suddenly, instead of breaking one of the water glasses on the table, she causes the ice cubes within to fracture and split into smaller pieces.

At first she doesn't believe it. Experiencing a powerful emotion has only ever come hand in hand with disaster. But now, for the first time, she's experienced the emotion—and vanquished it, too—with absolutely no harm done.

She stares at the broken ice cubes in wonder, and slowly a proud smile dawns on her face.

"Excellently done," says Remus.

***************************************************************************************************

On the first day of April, he leaves.

At first, Alice is under the impression that he is going away permanently. "You've accomplished so much," he tells her as he packs his clothes into his small suitcase and starts down the stairs, Alice following at his heels, distressed. "You're going to go on to learn great things."

She takes this to mean that he isn't coming back, and says, "But why are you going so soon?"

After realizing his mistake, Remus assures her that he will return in just over a week.

"Why?" she asks.

"I have business with someone in the far north."

"How far north?"

Ms. Figg gives her a harsh look, warning her not to pry, but Alice ignores it. The three of them are standing in the backyard, now, the morning dew fresh on the grass. Remus leans down, motioning for her to come closer, and whispers mysteriously in her ear: "Siberia."

He draws himself up again and gives her a meaningful look, smiling as he bids Ms. Figg farewell. "Keep working!" he says to Alice, before, with a snap, he apparates and is gone.

Over the next week, she is burdened by the feeling that he had been joking when he told her he was going to Siberia. She knows it isn't really her business where he's going, but still, the idea that he would say something so obviously outrageous to her makes her feel upset; and as though he thinks she is immature and childish—two things she most definitely does not want to be.

But she tries to put the thought out of her mind, and works instead on controlling her magic, so that he might be impressed with her when he comes back... if he comes back.

But return he does, just over eight days later. He seems exhausted, but she is relieved to have him back regardless, relieved to know that even if he did joke to her about Siberia, he hadn't abandoned her entirely.

With him he brings a thick stack of books for her to read, on magic spells, theories of magic, and the history of the Wizarding World. For his first three days back, he remains confined to the guest room, not coming out at all, sleeping, she assumes, exhausted from a long journey—to and from wherever it was he went. She takes advantage of the time to read through every single one of the books, gobbling up the words and wand motions and illustrations of historical events—infinitely more intriguing than those detailed in muggle textbooks.

But what proves much more interesting than the contents of the books themselves, is something she finds wedged in the pages halfway through Bathilda Bagshot's "A History of Magic." A piece of parchment which she soon reasons was not intended to be left there and seen by her eyes—a map.

Upon it she sees a map of Britain, the Netherlands to the east, and the shape of Siberia sketched even further to the right before it disappears off the parchment. On it are drawn many stars, one in London, another in Scotland, the third in Oslo, then Helsinki, and countless more dotting the far northern coast of Russia, all the way up to a point on the far northern tip of Siberia, on a remote island in the Kara Sea, the end of the line. Alongside each star is written a short list of words, seeming to describe specific sensory details of each location... Within one of the books Remus gave her, she read about the art of apparition, and can conclude that these words must be the words he thinks of when he apparates to each specific spot on the map, to ensure a safe journey.

At first, the girl feels bad that she'd doubted him. But soon a curiosity takes over, and she starts to wonder at the fact that he'd told her the truth about going to Siberia. Who could he have possibly been meeting all the way out there, on a deserted, freezing island? Was there some community of witches and wizards there, who hide their existence from the muggle world by means of magic? Was a wizard he knew hiding there for some reason?

The map soon sets off a chain reaction of questions, ideas and theories that crowd her brain all day long, and intensify to a feverish pitch in the isolated minutes before her body crashes into sleep at night.

Soon, though, she has to give it up. Remus comes out of his guest room finally, and incorporates himself into the workings of the house once again. She returns the books to him, and says nothing of the map.

As the control she has over her magic grows steadily, so does their companionship. Alice feels spurred onward to improve by a desire to impress Remus—she feels a deep interest in him, and an attraction, too—not an infatuation (but, perhaps, this is only because she doesn't know what to call the feeling, yet).

Regardless she begins to do better and better as time goes on, improving vastly and with great speed. Soon, she can make things hover at will, turn the water faucet on and off, and more. Remus is a superb teacher, but guiding Alice's extreme power does take a lot out of him, and by the end of every day he feels his mind becoming frayed from tiredness, in addition to his own troubles, slowly leaking into the haven he's found here on Privet Drive.

He'd been impressed when Alice had given him back the books so quickly, her thirst for knowledge proven by how quickly and thoroughly she'd read them. But that happiness had been taken over when he found, stuck in the middle of "A History of Magic," the map he'd created for his apparations. He must have placed it there and forgotten to remove it before giving the books to her. Though Alice hadn't said anything about it, he is sure that she had seen it. He knows that she'd scoured every page for information and knowledge, and skipping over the map would have been an impossibility—but he holds onto the hope that, perhaps, she had thought it might have been someone else's parchment, left there, and lacking any connection to him and his travels.

On the last day of April, one month later and the night before he will have to leave them again for the week of the full moon, Remus steps outside into the backyard to smoke a cigarette.

Despite his determination to quit them before taking up a post at Hogwarts in the coming fall, he hadn't been able to avoid taking along one or two, in case of an emergency. And tonight, he caves into his need, and lights one using a muggle lighter, looking up at the stars from the backyard, pondering his circumstances as he feels the nicotine swirling in his lungs.

Before long, however, he hears the sound of the door opening, letting out the sounds of Arabella Figg busying herself in the kitchen inside the house, and quiet footsteps on the grass behind him as Alice approaches.

He turns around to face her slightly, and she walks up to stand at his side. "I shouldn't be doing this," he confides to her, gesturing to the cigarette.

"Why not?" she asks, looking at the curious white cylinder between his fingers. She's seen cigarettes only on television and the fact that Remus has one in real life only adds dimension to his already intriguing and multi-faceted character, in her eyes.

"Because these are very, very bad for you," he says, taking another drag hypocritically. "And Professor Dumbledore told me to quit them, if I want to take a post at Hogwarts next year."

A little drop of disappointment fills her throat-in the garden, some of the heads of her flowers droop. "Are you going to take it?" she asks softly, not wanting to imagine going through another year alone.

"If I can stop smoking these nasty little buggers," says Remus.

"Give them to me," Alice suggests with a sly smirk on her lips. "I'll hide them from you."

He looks down at her with a raised eyebrow. "I know that mischievous look. I wore it once, too. You'd try one, wouldn't you?" Her wide grin is all the answer he needs. "Well, you're not allowed to have them."

"But when can I?" she says, suddenly feeling threatened by the possibility that he might still find her immature.

"Never," he says with finality. Her eyebrows furrow. "Fine," he laughs, noting her expression. "When you come of age in two years," he says, "I'll owl you one. But hopefully, by then, you'll take my word for it, and throw it away."

"Why would you owl it and not just hand it to me?" she retorts with a smile.

"Because by then," Remus says, whistling out a wisp of smoke and looking up at the inky sky, "you won't be needing me, anymore."

But what he's really thinking is that, just maybe, in two years, he might not be around at all. He feels a strange kinship, almost an attraction, to the girl... and suddenly, uncomfortable, he drops the cigarette onto the cool grass, and leaves it there, escaping into the house before Alice has a chance to start relying on him. He knows that, eventually, something is going to happen to him, and the thought of leaving her devastated in any capacity is too much for him to handle.

Alice looks after him as he goes back into the house and then, considering, kneels down and picks up the cigarette from the grass, still sending up a curl of smoke. She places it against her lips and quickly sucks a breath of air through it, as though it were a straw.

On the stairs inside the house, Remus can hear her startled coughing, and he stifles a smile as he shuts the door to the guest room.

The next morning, Alice wakes up early, hoping to catch him just in time and say goodbye—but he has already left.

***************************************************************************************************

Most of May passes, and again Remus is preparing to depart for Siberia in three days' time.

The pattern has not been lost on young Alice—he leaves at the beginning of each month for the week surrounding the full moon, and is invariably exhausted when he returns. She has started to wonder if, perhaps, it has something to do with the moon itself. She's read about muggle cults that mimic old pagan ones, the original 'witches,' and so thinks that maybe he goes up there every month for some sort of strange ritual. She still has so many questions, but doesn't ask any of them, for fear of offending him. But also, mostly, because she doesn't want him to know that she'd seen his map at all. Something about the thought of Remus thinking she'd obstructed his privacy in any way is distressing to her.

Alice is out in the garden, sitting with her legs crossed and staring with utmost focus at the flowers. At will, she makes some grow, and some shrink. She makes them wilt, and then brings them back to life. The rising and falling feeling of the magic inside of her as she does so makes her feel at peace, and she comes to let the flowers droop and freshen with each exhale and inhale.

The girl smiles, comforted by the sound of Remus and Ms. Figg conversing softly in the kitchen, the door between the house and backyard open to let in the nighttime breeze.

Now, she can make the flowers change any color she can imagine. She thinks back to the first day Remus had been with them, how she'd wished she might give him a bouquet of flowers whose colors she had controlled. Now, she has the ability to do so, the utmost freedom, thanks to him. She decides that she should make him a bouquet to take with him on his next journey, as proof of her progress and appreciation... but what colors to choose?

A slight breeze weaves through the grass and the blossoms, and one that seems unmatched with the regular breezes of the night, but she pays it no mind, lost in her thoughts and the sight of the flowers changing at her will.

But her concentration is certainly broken when, from directly behind her, comes an unfamiliar, low and menacingly gentle voice. "What a lovely garden," it says with a sadistic purr.

She can only turn around halfway before the man lunges to grab her, and takes her around the wrist, his hand squeezing so hard that she can feel her bones, veins and muscles grinding against each other dangerously, just before her hand goes suddenly numb.

She screams: high, loud and sharp—more from the pain than from the surprise of her attacker's presence, which, on its own, might have rendered her mute. One scream is all she gets before he pulls her closer into his strong frame, clamping a heavy hand down over her mouth and stifling her chance at another shout—and, she soon realizes, at taking a breath.

But just as the strange man grabs her, Remus suddenly appears in the doorway to the house, and, raising his wand, shouts "Immobulus!" rendering the kidnapper frozen in place.

Alice writhes in the clamping, tight grasp of her immobile almost-captor, her vision obscured by a handful of steadily growing black spots as she panics and struggles to breathe. Remus runs across the yard to her and, with much effort, helps Alice to get unstuck from the man's grasp, holding her by both shoulders and looking into her eyes as she coughs violently and fights to regain her breath.

For a moment she believes herself to be alright again, but when her head turns and she is accosted by the dangerous man's frozen, mirthful eyes, she bursts into panicked tears. Remus quickly identifies the trauma to her wrist, and, gently holding her arm, murmurs "Ferula," suddenly conjuring a bandage, which winds itself around her wrist and forearm, securing her shattered bone in place, and easing her pain slightly. "That should hold until later," he says, as much to himself as to her.

"Alice!" Ms. Figg gasps, only now reaching the two of them after a more stunned and stumbling journey from the kitchen and across the backyard. The woman quickly reaches for the girl, and Alice crashes into Ms. Figg's arms, allowing herself to be squeezed, still feeling the chilling gaze of the kidnapper on the back of her neck.

Remus looks gravely into the immobile eyes of the perpetrator, the dustier gears in his brain dedicated to the art of survival slowly churning into motion.

"Right," he says aloud, his instincts taking over, urging him to take what control there is to be taken, and to do what must be done—an order from his own subconscious which he cannot disobey. "First stop: Ministry of Magic. We're going to have to drop this nasty bugger off in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. And then we're headed straight to Hogwarts."

"For gracious sakes, Lupin, this instant?" protests Ms. Figg, though she knows his words to be the best course of action. They must go now, or they will be in danger of being found by others, either surrounding muggles (a number of nearby dogs have already started barking howling at the disturbance caused by the event), or other wizards and witches who may have been in arms with this man, and might follow after him if he doesn't return promptly.

"Arabella, please, his counterparts could be preparing to apparate this very moment," says Remus, reinforcing what the woman had known to be true.

Alice, swept up in the rush of the past minute, takes an additional moment to catch up with the two adults' conversation. But when she does a new wave of horrified adrenaline seizes control of her body. She watches as Remus grabs ahold of the collar of the man who had almost taken her, and as Ms. Figg takes Remus's hand.

"Alice, dear," says Ms. Figg to the girl, holding out her hand. "Hold it tightly or you might be swept off to who knows where."

"Are we-"

"Apparating, Darling," interjects Remus. "Please, Alice, hurry."

"Take my hand," says Ms. Figg.

Alice's eyes grow wide, and she takes one last look at the house on Privet Drive as the legitimacy of her imminent departure dawns on her. She had always yearned to escape the house and the street, to escape muggle life and take wing into the Wizarding World—but now that the moment has actually arrived, she is terrified to leave.

Slowly, she turns her head away from the lit-up windows, turns away from her garden in the corner, and takes her guardian's hand tightly in hers.

A brief snap of light. A slight unnatural breeze ripples through the empty backyard.

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Spells used in this chapter:

1\. "Reparo," the mending spell  
2\. "Immobulus," which causes the victim to become... you guessed it... immobile  
3\. "Ferula," a bandaging charm which temporarily splints any broken bones and also eases pain

Sorry for updating a bit later than the usual hour—academic writing is a necessary evil.

Also, this chapter was really long. I hope your brains aren't fried. Mine certainly is! Now that I think about it, please let me know if you would prefer shorter chapters! They might be easier on the brain, and, if so, I would be happy to oblige. But I can't read your mind, so... let me know!

I have twisted the usual course of things in this chapter: usually Dumbledore seeks Remus out to offer him the post before Harry's third year. Clearly, in my version, it didn't play out this way. I hope this is a forgivable change-I don't believe Remus's decision to approach Albus instead of the other way around changes his fundamental character too drastically. On a similar note, at the beginning of the chapter, Dumbledore was not technically supposed to be at Hogwarts. But, again, not detrimental to my storyline, so I'm okay with breaking the rules a bit.

One fun fact, though, that I did get right: Ms. Figg's cats are not 100% cat, but also part Kneazle. Kneazles can live upwards of 70 years if owned by traveling witches or wizards, but when kept at home they can still live around 20 to 30 years. So, if you were a bit taken aback by the fact that Snowy, Mr. Paws, Mr. Tibbles and Tufty are still alive and well in this chapter, that was the reason why.

Please, please, please, PLEASE review... Really, I will love you forever (even more than I already do).

Next time... we are finally OUT of Ms. Figg's house... Wizarding World, here we come!

Thank you for not plagiarizing my writing!

On_Errand_Bad

9,029 words

Thursday, 15 October 2020


	5. V | Marionette

Note:

Oh, my goodness, my readership just continues to grow! It makes me so happy to check this story's statistics and see the numbers going up! I want to quickly acknowledge all of my international readers, especially—it brings me great joy to know that this story is reaching so far away from the physical location where I sit and type! Words truly do bring us all together.

Leila Davis, the site won't let me respond to you currently, but thank you so much for reviewing! I agree that it seems unfair for Dumbledore to keep Alice out of Hogwarts... we will find out why later in this chapter (and you might hate me for it. We shall see)!

Une-papillon-de-nuit, once again, your review made my heart warm right up. Thank you so much for your consistent support.

I received some positive feedback from une-papillon-de-nuit on Domhnall Gleeson's casting as Remus, so I will continue to include him in the list.

You'll notice that in the cast I've added not one but two additional casting options for Lucius Malfoy. Both of these actors (Lee Pace, who played Thranduil in the Hobbit adaptations, and Harry Lloyd who played Viserys Targaryen on Game of Thrones) have been circling around the Harry Potter fandom for a while as look-alikes or parallels for Lucius Malfoy and Abraxas Malfoy (Lucius's father), respectively. But I think both could definitely fit the mold of Lucius (and when I write his character, I end up imagining a sort of amalgam of all of them put together). So, to offer you some more options, I decided to include all three.

Fun fact, though: Jason Isaacs (who plays Lucius) was actually the exact same age as Lucius would have been in the second book at the time the second movie was made. I love it when those things line up.

Anyway, let me know what you think of those other two potential Lucius's!

A quick note on some new characters in this chapter: The Nott family is an actual pureblood family in the Harry Potter canon. We know that the Nott's son is named Theodore Nott and is in the Slytherin house in Harry's year—but we never really see any details on his parents in the books, apart from the knowledge that his father was a Death Eater and fought in the first Wizarding War. So... Vanessa and Haden are totally made up by me, but they do have ties to the legitimate aristocracy in the book. I've underlined them in the cast list to let you know that they are original characters, but please know that I do not take 100% credit for them.

Logan Morelli is another new original character in this chapter—I had quite a bit of fun writing him, and I think he's probably going to show up again later. So keep an eye out!

I hope you like these casting decisions... as always, if you don't like them, don't use them!

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling the Utmost Venerable.

Chapter Five Totally Optional Cast (in order of appearance)

The House of Nott:

Christian Bale . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Haden Nott  
Rosamund Pike . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Vanessa Nott  
Adrien Brody . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Logan Morelli

Hogwarts:

Anya Taylor-Joy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Alice  
David Thewlis / Domhnall Gleeson . . . . . . . . . . . . . Remus Lupin  
Kathryn Hunter . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Arabella Figg  
Jason Isaacs / Lee Pace / Harry Lloyd . . . . . . . . . . . Lucius Malfoy  
Daniel Radcliffe . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Harry Potter  
Maggie Smith . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Minerva McGonagall  
Sir Michael Gambon . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Albus Dumbledore  
Gemma Jones . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Madam Pomfrey  
Emma Watson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Hermione Granger  
Rupert Grint . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Ronald Weasley  
John Hurt . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Ollivander

*****************************************************************************************************

V | Marionette

31 May, 1993  
The House of Nott / Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry / Diagon Alley

The room is giant hung with tapestries and ancestral paintings which keep in the cold. The latter half of one wall is dominated entirely by a giant fireplace, but it contains no flames—gaping black and deep like an open maw, waiting for its foolish prey to walk in. Madness is draped over the room like a veil—nothing new, but made heavier by the strain on its two occupants: the man, standing up, gazing out the window; the woman, sitting down in a chair that will creak if she moves even slightly, her hands worrying the fabric of her skirt.

Haden Nott's shoulders are stiff, standing at attention, the muscles of his neck and jaw trembling from the effort of keeping his head unbowed—a drained spite clamps down upon his every sinew, and the deep-chiseled features of his face hold more darkness than ever before.

Vanessa Nott has aged much since the night fifteen years ago, when she had given birth to her daughter, to her first child. Then, she had fled the birthing room, feeling something cold and unnatural about the midwife and nurses who surrounded her, and even something quite evil in the child itself. But now, how she wishes she had remained, had brought the infant girl to her breast and made herself stand it...

They listen to the clock ticking, a hollow sound, over and over, filling the cavernous room and echoing inside the fireplace. The dark of the night floods in through the window, draping itself over the man, their hopelessness and loss encompassed in the time of night.

Vanessa is the first to cleave apart the silence. "He isn't coming back," she says, her voice cold and miserable, the voice a statue would have if it could speak.

Haden turns to her, the darkness making the evil bone of his cheek stand out; his dark eyes look corrugated. "He will come," he says to her.

He starts to turn back to the pitch-black window but his wife interrupts him: "There's no chance. It's been hours, Haden. We simply can't deny it any longer."

The fingers of his right hand curl slowly into a fist, squeezing hard as he breathes in. He releases the tension after holding it in for a moment, hoping that his anger-laced grief might dilute when he does so. But instead he is left with a tingling loss, and even more dark ministers of distress crowd his skull, like skittering, pincered insects.

But suddenly, at the end of the front walk, just outside the wrought-iron gate, a man cloaked in dark blue appears.

Vanessa registers the shift in her husband's posture. "What is it?" Her voice echoes off of the fireplace and back to her, making the tapestries shiver where they hang.

"Who," Haden corrects, looking at her as he moves away from the window and starts on his way out of the room. "Logan Morelli," he calls over his shoulder as he exits through the doorway, and Vanessa stands up like a bolt of lightning, at the name, hurrying after Haden.

A minute later the three of them are sat in a smaller, warmer sitting room downstairs, an untouched set of tea sat before them. Vanessa and Haden sit beside each other, Logan Morelli (tall and built but mellow-faced, with beady brown eyes and a bird-like nose) seated across from them, still wearing his cloak—this will be a brief visit.

"He was brought in just minutes after you sent him out," the visitor from the Ministry says, getting down to brass tacks. The Notts tense slightly at the news, eyes urging the other wizard to elaborate. "I was the one to question him in the Department of Law Enforcement, and he said that the girl had been there... he'd almost gotten away with her before Remus Lupin-"

A slight shuffling of clothes as the couple places the name, remembering the odd Gryffindor in their year at Hogwarts, years before.

"...Remus Lupin immobilized him. The Squib woman was there—Figg—and all three of them brought him to the Ministry, together. He heard Lupin say, just before they apparated, that they were headed to Hogwarts, next, for protection. Now..." he shifts his body slightly to indicate a change in his line of talk, "I have ensured that no news of this will leak into the post, and your... emissary will not be traceable back to this household. But you can expect the Ministry to look into this thoroughly, once Dumbledore gets a word in. I will try to wave them in the wrong direction, but..."

He slowly trails off as he looks between the faces of Vanessa and Haden and realizes, with a jolt of surprise, that neither of them have been truly listening to anything he's said. A sadness has taken over them completely, and both stare down at the untouched tea set, lost in miserable contemplation.

The Notts know nothing about the fact that their daughter possesses immense power. Their long efforts to get her back have been founded on no power-hungry foundations. They merely long to have their child back. For fifteen years, they have been in the dark—the mad who had kidnapped their child and taken her into the woods, never to be seen again, had remained silent through every tongue-loosening curse imaginable. Haden had carried out the inquisition himself to ensure that as much that could be done, had been, before the maid was sent off to Azkaban.

But now that the two parents know that their daughter had been living with a Squib woman for her first fifteen years of life, and is now at Hogwarts, a glimmer of hope pierces through the dark veil of grief that has surrounded them for so long. And both of them know for sure that, now, they are going to get her back, at all costs.

"Thank you, Logan, for your loyalty," says Haden. "And now you will demonstrate its breadth once more by going to Hogwarts straight away and confronting Dumbledore. Find our child. And bring her back to us."

Morelli nods his head slowly, but as he stands up, feels it necessary to speak. "Haden, if Dumbledore is insistent on not letting the girl go..."

"Find her and bring her back," repeats Haden. "We will cope with the consequences."

Haden snaps his fingers once in midair and a maid promptly enters the sitting room, to usher Morelli out of the house. The latter tips his head to the Notts and goes out with his escort without a word of protest, though his mind is careening with the impossible task before him.

Haden and Vanessa wait, still as statues until the door has been closed and they are left alone again. Then, slowly, as though they have been paralyzed for decades and are only now being freed of their curse, they turn towards each other. Haden attempts to take his wife's hand but she shifts her hand away, not ready to lose herself in a celebratory, or even hopeful, emotion... not yet.

"Theodore," she says aloud at length, giving voice to a newfound concern. Haden's eyebrows furrow: their son, twelve years old, had acted as a replacement for the girl who they'd lost before Haden had even been able to see her face for the first time. Never had they told him anything about the girl who had been their child before he had even been imagined, the girl who had been stolen from them on the same night of her birth.

If she were suddenly reintroduced into the household, into their family, what would Theodore make of it? Would bringing their daughter home with open arms result in his feeling excommunicated?

These doubts and countless more are relayed between the two parents' eyes, but Haden says only, "We will cross that bridge when we come to it."

Vanessa feels her eyes brim with sudden tears, and nods her head to herself. "We're going to bring our daughter home."

*****************************************************************************************************

A rush of wind interrupts the early morning birdsong in a grove of trees on the edge of the Hogwarts grounds.

Alice, dizzy from her second-ever apparation, nearly falls over upon landing in the dewy grass beneath the swaying aspens. But Remus reaches out to steady her, holding her upright by the upper arm to give her a minute to settle her mind and remember how to breathe.

The girl is so exhausted and terrified from the experience of the last hours, that she would consent to be carried the rest of the way if she were small enough. This is, after all, the first time she has ever been out in the world—muggle or Wizarding, alike. At the ministry, she'd been exhausted by the fullness and bustle of the halls, the sheer number of people who could exist in one space. Not to mention the sudden entry of magic upon her awareness: they'd agreed to stay together to eliminate risk, and she'd had to flush herself down the toilet and into a fireplace, at which point she almost lost herself in the fray before Lupin found her and took her hand.

"Hold onto me, Alice," says Ms. Figg, equally befuddled by the business of the past hours, but nowhere near as exhausted from it as the girl. Alice listens to her gratefully and leans on her guardian's arm as the three of them proceed out of the cover the copse of trees had provided, and across the grounds in the direction of Hogwarts castle.

But as they start to walk closer to Hogwarts, lead by Remus and free of the burden of the paralyzed kidnapper, Alice's head starts to clear. In the late spring air she gasps in awe at the sight of the castle before her, the largest structure she's ever seen—dwarfing the buildings she'd seen in the city of London before entering upon the Ministry of Magic. Remus smiles at her, recalling the feeling of awe he, too, had experienced when he'd first seen the school.

The clear air brings a spark of excitement into the girl's head and heart, and kindles it there. It only grows larger and warmer as they become closer to the grand structure, the magnitude of the castle becoming more overpowering and evident to Alice with every step.

The three of them cross the bridge and proceed into the school, Alice looking up at the vaulted ceilings and rose window in awe, the pendulum of the giant clock tower swinging back and forth steadily, a powerful and ancient magic evident in every single part of the structure, in the very air within and around it. Slowly they progress through the halls, both Ms. Figg and Remus taking delight in watching Alice's reactions. The students are all tucked away in their classrooms, but beyond the doors discussion and magic can be heard. There's a certain feeling of freedom and infinite opportunity (for knowledge, for companionship, for life) about the place, a feeling so strong in Alice's heart that, once, when they pass by an unlit candelabra, it hovers up and flies above the ground for a moment before the girl brings her joy under control and it settles back to the ground again.

And just in time, too, as an ireful wizard clad in layers of dark, rich brocades and a deep green velvet cloak rounds a nearby corner, his white hair disheveled and flying out behind him with the speed of his steps. His eyes are a piercing ice-blue, razor-sharp in a pale, menacing face, and with him he carries a black cane with a silver serpent-head handle, an extension of his cold intentions.

At the sight of the irate, white-haired wizard, Remus slows his pace and then stands still entirely, prompting Ms. Figg and Alice to do the same. "Malfoy," says Remus darkly, causing the other wizard to stop, in turn.

Lucius Malfoy draws himself up, placing his glittering black cane firmly on the stone floor before him and assuming a look of superiority that takes his whole face with it. "Fancy seeing you here," says the white-haired wizard, his voice bitter and clipped, but undeniably deep, resounding coldly off the walls.

"I could say the same to you," says Remus, the retort shrouded in a sarcastic warmth. Alice looks between the two wizards, leaning in closer to Ms. Figg's side.

Malfoy's lip flickers upward minutely, but his cruel poise does not falter. "Whatever business you have here, you should hurry to it," he says, his ice-cold eyes boring directly into Lupin's safe but injured grey ones. "One might argue that your presence here, so near to the full moon, poses a threat to the students."

Alice's eyebrows furrow at the mention of the full moon, and when she looks to Remus, something drops in her stomach, for his face has gone pale, though he refuses to hang his head. Lucius smirks at Lupin, sneers at Ms. Figg, and looks Alice over from head to toe with an uncomfortable dispassion before continuing on his way down the corridor, leaving them with a frigid "Good day."

Alice turns to watch the wizard—Malfoy, Remus had called him—until he has turned another corner at the end of the hall and disappeared from sight. She feels a cold shiver of repulsion roll through Ms. Figg's side, and looks up to Remus in confusion. "Who was that?" she asks aloud, but still quietly, as she gets the sense that the Malfoy man can still hear her.

"That," Remus answers, the color slowly returning to his face, "was someone I will not waste breath introducing at the moment."

But Alice's curiosity regarding the cruel wizard is quickly banished because, suddenly, from around the corner, Harry Potter appears, with the just-liberated house elf Dobby at his side. The clothes of The Boy Who Lived are disheveled, and his face is dirty from his journey through the Chamber of Secrets in the bowels of the school, but Alice cares not—for the first time in years, she is seeing her best friend in the flesh, and not separated by two windows and the street between their respective houses on Privet Drive.

She also recognizes the small creature walking alongside him as the one who had been jumping on Harry's bed that night last summer, and who had been keeping his friends' letters from him. But her attention is focused on her friend as he, too, stops in his tracks for a second, recognizing Alice before running forward to her, a smile beaming across his face.

Alice steps forward eagerly and in just a few seconds that feel shorter than they actually are, the two of them catch each other in a relieved, excited embrace.

"Is this another of Harry Potter's friends?" asks Dobby from a few paces away, smiling curiously at the girl.

"Yes, Dobby," says Harry, his smile only broadening. "This is Alice. She's my best friend."

Alice grins at his words, and looks at her companion, the early morning light glinting on his glasses. "Harry," she says to him.

Harry Potter knows from the tone of Alice's voice that something has changed—and he understands all at once that she must have found out about who he really is, and why everyone in the Wizarding World knows his name. A shadow of embarrassment crosses briefly over his face. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you," he says, "I needed a friend who knew about my magic, and who I could tell about my adventures, but who didn't have any of those thoughts about me and my history..."

But Alice shakes her head, banishing his shame. "Harry, I completely understand. I'm not angry at all, and I don't think any differently of you." She smiles at him. "You're still Harry."

And Harry Potter grins back, having heard the only words he ever truly wishes to hear. "Just Harry," he echoes, contentment rushing through his heart. But soon the presence of Dobby and the lingering adrenaline still running in his veins spurs him forward with a spike of excitement. "I have loads to tell you about-" he starts.

But just then, a tall woman in a pointed hat and emerald green robes appears around the corner. "Not now, you don't, Mr. Potter," she calls to him, her voice shrill and assertive, but somehow warm and welcoming, at the same time. "You had better hurry along to Astronomy."

"Yes, Professor McGonagall," says Harry, his happiness still not dampened by the re-entry of his scholarly duties upon his conscious mind. Harry turns to look at Alice, hugging her again warmly before waving goodbye to Ms. Figg. He overlooks Remus entirely, who has faded into the background as effectively as if he were wearing an invisibility cloak, and then hurries off, Dobby following at his heels excitedly.

A thin, contained smile on her lips, Minerva McGonagall turns to Alice, looking at her fondly through her spectacles, admiring how she'd grown. Alice, in turn, recognizes the woman from somewhere, and quickly recognizes her as the witch who had been in the street below on the night that Harry first arrived on Privet Drive.

"You're the cat!" Alice says suddenly, not knowing how else to express her excitement.

McGonagall chuckles to herself, and says, "Yes, my dear, I believe I am," her eyes warming as she turns to Arabella and Remus. "The three of you must be exhausted. And—Oh, dear, what's happened to your arm?"

Alice follows the witch's gaze down to her bandaged arm, her eyes widening at the sight, having completely forgotten about it. But now that she remembers, a little bit of pain seems to spring into her wrist, at the memory of how the dangerous man had grabbed onto it so hard it had felt as though all the bones, muscles and veins inside were grinding and crushing against each other.

Remus reasserts himself into the group, saying, "That's where he grabbed her," his hands in his pockets.

McGonagall raises her eyebrows. "Pray tell, who?"

"A man apparated into the yard, and nearly took her. We've just been at the Ministry... dropping him off, so to speak."

"I see," says McGonagall. She looks into Remus's eyes and finds, there, that there is more he's not saying; that he won't say in the presence of the girl.

Minverva, too, has things she would like to tell Alice: about how she had been there when she was first handed over to Ms. Figg in her first day of life... But she decides against it, and bites her tongue, suffering through the necessary role of secret-keeper that comes with adulthood.

"Why don't I deliver you to Madam Pomfrey in the hospital wing?" she says. "She'll get your wrist fixed up directly."

Alice looks nervously to Ms. Figg, afraid to leave her side for the first time in her life... but something about McGonagall has earned her trust, and her longing to branch out on her own, to see what the castle and this new world has to offer her, overtakes her entirely.

She looks to Ms. Figg for permission, and with difficulty, Arabella nods her head up and down. Alice smiles, and goes willingly with Professor McGonagall, who looks back meaningfully at Remus and Arabella before turning, escorting the girl down the hall in the direction of the nearest stairwell.

Arabella Figg and Remus Lupin watch the girl go down the hall in silence. The woman feels breath catch in her throat as she murmurs, "That's the first time she's ever been away from me."

Remus smiles at her, and after a quiet, tender moment, they proceed down the opposite hall, towards Dumbledore's office.

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They have just finished relaying their story to Albus Dumbledore, and Fawkes the phoenix ruffling his feathers anxiously, when the stone spiral staircase starts to move, and, moments later, Logan Morelli bursts on the scene.

"Logan," acknowledges Dumbledore calmly, Remus and Arabella looking confusedly at the newcomer, whom they've never seen before.

"Headmaster," gasps Morelli, winded from a run across the grounds and up multiple staircases. "I'm sorry for the intrusion, but it couldn't wait." Morelli notices the two others in the room, seated across from Dumbledore, and almost laughs at the coincidence.

"Please, what's happened?" Albus says, inviting the young man to seat himself, but Morelli declines the offer.

"I've just been with the Notts—they are more determined than ever to reclaim the girl, and they know she's here, now."

"How?" says Remus.

Morelli turns with an air of sarcasm-laced respect to Lupin, saying, "Because you, sir, said something about Hogwarts before you apparated." And, turning back to Dumbledore, "I was the one to question the man they sent. Headmaster—truly—these are two desperate parents, determined to get their child back at all costs. And I can assure you... they will find a way."

Morelli settles slightly into his robes, but then, prompted by the stunned silence of Lupin and Figg, and by the collected but thoughtful quiet of Dumbledore, he speaks again, more quietly. "They have no bad intentions, as of yet. They don't know of her abilities—they don't even know what she looks like. But they will stop at nothing." He shivers slightly, despite the warmth of the room. "Merlin knows what they'll do if they do find out about the breadth of her powers."

Remus feels suddenly left out, and rather suspicious of this Morelli, who he's never met, and who seems to know a great deal about Alice and the inner-workings of Dumbledore's plan. Remus thinks, bluntly, that he knows a bit more than he ought to. "How are we to be sure," he asks Logan, "that you aren't really working for the Notts; that we aren't the ones being slighted?"

"Remus," quells Dumbledore, "your concern is valiant, but misplaced. Logan is to be trusted completely." Remus nods his head, feeling rather put-out by the stress of the past hours' events, and decides it would be better if he were to be silent until he can get some rest. "Morelli," continues Dumbledore, turning to the addressed, "thank you for your concern, as well. I would have you return to Haden and Vanessa, and notify them that you were incapable of finding Alice at Hogwarts. That will put them off it briefly—but if they do plan to come, regardless, reach out to me immediately."

"I will, Albus" says Morelli, nodding respectfully but quickly at Arabella and Lupin before turning and excusing himself from the office, hurrying down the staircase and out of the castle.

Dumbledore stands slowly from his desk and looks out the window over the grounds, Morelli's receding blue-cloaked form a mere dot from his vantage point. Albus traces his double-agent's path until he reaches a nearby group of trees, from whose cover he apparates away. "What to do, what to do," he says to himself after a quiet moment, pondering the yellow morning sky.

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The hospital wing is a simultaneously uneventful and stimulating place. An air of celebration but exhaustion hangs over all the empty beds—and when she first arrives, Madam Pomfrey, herself, is laying in one of them from her tiredness, after supposedly curing a number of students of some strange paralysis. Alice is both left out and invited in, still intrigued despite being entirely without context.

The healing witch quickly stands up from the bed, however, setting about fixing her new patient, letting McGonagall go to her other duties. Madam Pomfrey fixes Alice's arm with alarming speed, having her drink a potion, and casting a short series of spells, before rebandaging her wrist with the same spell Remus had used earlier.

Then she is left to calmly sit and observe quietly, Madam Pomfrey hurrying out of the hospital wing towards the great hall. Alice considers getting some sleep, but though the bed is comfortable, she can't imagine actually going to bed while surrounded by a place of such magic. First she admires the architecture in the interior of the room, the stonework on the vaulted ceilings above. Then she looks out the tall wide windows onto the expansive, lush green grounds and the bright blue sky. Next, her gaze lands upon a bouquet of flowers, set upon a nearby bedside table: fresh flowers. Whoever had been laying in that cot before being cured must have been well loved and cared for by somebody.

Remus and Ms. Figg arrive in the hospital wing a few minutes later to keep her company. Remus picks up the vase of flowers and moves it onto Alice's bedside table with a smile, before sitting down on the edge of the cot adjacent to hers, while Ms. Figg stands at the foot of Alice's bed.

"Those were someone else's," protests the girl.

"Well," says Remus with a wink, "I stole them. Besides, whoever had them certainly doesn't need them anymore. Unless the patient happens to be invisible."

"Is invisibility possible?" says Alice, her eyes widening as she considers this for the first time.

"Perfectly so," Remus says. "Harry's father James once had a cloak of invisibility—which is one of the Deathly-"

"Remus, not yet," interjects Ms. Figg. And he smiles shyly, looking down at his knees.

Dobby the liberated house elf soon brings a tray of food from the feast, for the three of them to share. And while Alice digs into the most delicious meal she's ever eaten, the little creature sits down on her cot by her feet and animatedly tells her the story of his time knowing Harry Potter, and, finally, how he had just that morning been saved from servitude to the Malfoy family by Harry, when he tricked his master into giving him a sock. (Dobby bursts into joyful tears when he almost calls Lucius Malfoy his master, but then realizes that he no longer is).

Alice, intrigued by what he's told her, and touched by the house elf's show of emotion, is about to ask a question about how, exactly, he had been freed with merely a sock. But before she can, a great joyful cheer goes up somewhere else in the castle. At first she jumps a little at the sound, but soon calms down. "What is that?" she says to Remus.

"There's always something to celebrate at Hogwarts," the wizard responds with a smile. But as he is overcome by a wave of happiness, he feels suddenly lightheaded. "Excuse me," he says, subtly standing and leaving the hospital wing, focusing all his effort on not fainting in front of Alice.

For the first time in a day, Remus Lupin has time to reflect upon his current state of mind, and with that reflection has come an understanding that he is feeling anything but well—and a wariness of the time of month. He knows he needs to get on his way to Siberia as soon as possible, but leaving Alice behind at this moment, even with Arabella, feels anything but right.

But for now, he exits the hospital wing, and turns down the hall, thinking he might just slide down the wall and sit on the floor for a few moments until he regains his bearings. Suddenly, though, having been hanging his head and dragging his feet, Remus accidentally bumps into Dumbledore, who had just rounded the corner on his way to visit Alice.

Remus steps back and Dumbledore reaches out to steady him. "What's troubling you, Remus?"

"You know," Lupin retorts miserably. "I'm sorry, sir," he amends, "but I really think I must leave, as soon as possible."

"Absolutely not," says Dumbledore calmly but firmly. "Severus will set a dose of wolfsbane in order and you'll sleep through it all in the old spot in Hogsmeade. The same witch lives there, now. She would welcome you, I'm sure."

"I don't trust Severus to make that potion," says Remus, his forehead darkened by the thought of his old enemy in his school days. It's not that he distrusts Severus Snape because of any fault of Snape's own, but because Remus himself had been in arms with James, who had been Severus's frequent torturer throughout thier school years. Thus, Remus's fear that Snape might purposefully make a mistake in making the wolfsbane potion, is undercut by a sharp and stinging feeling that, maybe, he would be right in doing so.

"Very well," says Dumbledore, "I can make it myself, if you would prefer. But, Remus, I will not allow you to escape to some cold, remote place on the globe when we are perfectly suited to accommodate you closer to home. Merlin knows, you're exhausted enough as it is, and in no condition to apparate." He quiets, and looks into his once-student's scarred face. "Please, Remus, agree with me on this. It will be perfectly safe."

Remus starts to shake his head at himself, ready to give up and agree to his former headmaster's plan, but quickly silences himself, the sound of three young, excited voices echoing in the nearby stairwell. Moments later, Harry Potter, Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley appear in the corridor, grinning from the climb, the thrill of Rubeus Hagrid's return, and their full (too full, in Ron's case) stomachs.

"Good afternoon, Professor Dumbledore," says Hermione brightly.

"Good afternoon, Miss Granger. It's wonderful to see you up and about, once more."

"Is Alice in there?" interjects Harry, motioning towards the room into the hospital wing. Dumbledore nods his head in affirmation and the three of them (Ron sneaking one of many smuggled chocolates out of his pocket and sticking it in his mouth when he thinks nobody is looking) hurry through the door, once again, not noticing Remus, who has expertly blended into his surroundings.

Alice brightens at the arrival of Harry and his two best school friends, so Ms. Figg, worried about Remus, excuses herself and ventures out into the hallway to check on him.

"Why don't you attend Hogwarts?" Hermione asks Alice after they've all gotten over the necessary introductions.

"I don't know why..." starts Alice, trying not to reveal how troubled she is by the fact.

But Ron quickly blows over the potential tension. "Y'know, Alice, Harry, just a couple months ago, got his arm hit by a bludger at a Quidditch match, and Lockhart tried to mend it, but it went all floppy and he had to grow all the bones back with a miserable potion. It took days, but it was bloody wicked."

Alice smiles at the boy's energetic yet casual way of speaking, and the shine in his eyes that fits perfectly with the spray of freckles on his cheeks. But still, she can't contain her curiosity, and after a minute, she asks them all, "Sorry, but... what's Quidditch?"

Out in the hall, the three adults have been conversing about Remus and his worry surrounding leaving Alice for the safety of a locked and charmed room in Hogsmeade. But Dumbledore, peeking into the room, smiles tenderly, banishing Lupin's anxiety.

"I believe," Albus says with a smile in his voice, "that young Alice is in the best of hands, at present."

Harry, Ron and Hermione look at each other in joyous mischief, and then focus their energy on Alice, bursting with an endless supply of secrets to let her in on.

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Two weeks pass, and it's almost time for the students to board the Hogwarts Express back to Kings Cross Station for the summer.

But the relief that usually comes with the end of the school year is nonexistent in the Headmaster's office—the pressure is on and only increasing to locate a suitable place where Alice might be kept safe. Thus far, the Notts have not come to Hogwarts seeking out their daughter themselves, and Morelli has gathered no further news. Each day that Alice is kept at Hogwarts, Dumbledore feels the risk factor grow exponentially.

But this morning, something unexpected has arrived on his desk—a newly introduced option which may provide a way out, which, as the day has progressed, has started to look more and more like the safest option available.

The Headmaster spends hours pacing around and around the circular room, consulting each of his paintings in turn, as well as the sorting hat, before coming to his conclusion. He calls Remus Lupin in after the evening feast, to discuss the dilemma at hand, hoping that a full stomach might make the younger wizard more partial to the ridiculous plan he has to present.

Before saying anything at all, upon Remus's arrival in his office, Dumbledore merely picks up the paper from his desk and hands it to Remus, pointing at the spot which he is to read. It's a pureblood newspaper, and it's been folded to the advertisement page. Remus, sitting down in the chair across from Dumbledore's, looks down at it and reads the short text printed where the headmaster had pointed.

"In need of a young maid to entertain and care for two young boys," Remus reads aloud. "50 Galleons each week... Malfoy Manor."

For a few stretched and painful moments, silence descends upon the office. Remus looks up slowly from the parchment, and then lays it down on the desk again, as one might cringe away from a disgusting, dead thing.

"As you may or may not know," Dumbledore says, parting the silence, "Lucius's wife Narcissa died giving birth to their second son, Fynn, just two years ago. Simply put, this advertisement means that he is now seeking a young woman to serve as a mother figure and companion to his sons, for lack of a real one."

In a series of mumbled and half-formed stutters, Remus argues that Alice is not a young woman, but a child. He finds himself to be completely perplexed by the great wizard's utter stupidity in the present situation.

"I started out with doubts, as well, Remus," says Albus, "but with each passing minute this seems to me to become a better and better option on the front of safety. The Notts still don't know what their daughter looks like, so wouldn't recognize her if they came into contact with each other in society. Lucius doesn't know that she is their daughter, either, and he may not even know of a lost daughter's existence, if they chose to keep it a secret to save their pride. We cannot hide her in the school forever, and if she were inducted into pureblood society, she would be the safest she could be under these circumstances. Hiding in plain sight, so to speak, until new arrangements can be put in order. And Remus, I must stress the fact that this would be temporary, and only a maid's position. It's doubtful that Alice would come into regular contact with Lucius Malfoy, if at all, even taking into account the intimate nature of the post to be filled. Lucius is infamous for keeping his staff at arm's length."

Over the course of Dumbledore's short speech, Remus has grown more and more pale as he realizes the implications of the headmaster's words, and the sincerity with which they are spoken. His voice trembles in disbelief when he speaks. "Albus, I trust you more than anyone else in the world, but you must know that I absolutely do not condone this decision. In all honesty, I think it's quite absurd."

"I know that, Remus," says the headmaster with a disabling but aggravating calmness. "But my mind is made up. I won't be swayed."

"What-" Lupin stutters for a moment before regaining control "-what would be so wrong with having her here, in the school?"

"Alice is a priceless asset. The other students and staff simply cannot know about her. If she were to practice magic here, her abilities would become all too well-known—even famed. And she would become a threat to both the entire Wizarding World, and to herself. Imagine, for a moment-" he leans forward to further captivate Remus's attention "-what would happen if someone with her potential had existed during Voldemort's reign. Imagine how he would have manipulated such an individual's abilities to his advantage."

Remus pales further, seeing the headmaster's point as clear as day, but still not wanting to accept it. "Alice is a person," he says at length, "not a secret weapon. Besides, have you considered how much work will go into preparing her for such a task? She would be required—required without any sort of leniency—to suppress her abilities at all times in that wretched house. And training her to reach that level would eat up precious time. At the end of all that, the post might not even be open, anymore."

"Remus, can't you see that nobody wants to take the post, even remotely? No witch in her right mind would apply for this position, knowing of the Malfoys."

"Precisely!" says Lupin in exasperation, but Dumbledore silences him with an upheld hand.

"Lucius is already desperate enough to advertise his need for help in the paper-which he would never dare to do unless his circumstances forced him. By the time Alice is ready, his need will have multiplied to such a degree that he won't be able to help but give her the post."

A beat passes, in which Dumbledore is suddenly distracted by the bowl of candies on his desk. "Would you care for a lemon drop?" he asks, absentmindedly picking one up and holding it out across his desk.

But the younger wizard has already turned his back and left the room.

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On the nineteenth of May, the students of Hogwarts journey together into Hogsmeade and board the train back to London for the summer.

Ms. Figg decides to return to her house on Privet Drive, and Dumbledore sends a group of Aurors ahead of her, to cast powerful protection spells around the house to guard it from further disturbances and possible risks. Alice feels poorly about having to say goodbye to Harry and her two new good friends, as well has her lifelong guardian, but bears the loss with poise, looking forward to whatever her future in the halls of Hogwarts might hold—though she is ever-conscious of something rather unpleasant about her situation and its impacts on others, something being diligently hidden from her by the adults in her life, particularly Remus.

It takes Lupin surprisingly little time to come around to Dumbledore's proposition. At a certain point, he lets down his strict defenses, understanding that, if Dumbledore wills it, it will happen regardless of whether he approves or not. In addition, he has started (though he wishes this weren't the case) to realize that Albus has a strong point—taking the post in the Malfoy Manor, even if only for a few months' time, could give Alice the best chance at safety.

But in order to get her to the level of control required in order for the plan to function, Remus has a great amount of magic to teach her.

By late June, they are left with Hogwarts virtually empty but for a few lingering staff and the ghosts.

Professor Dumbledore is the one to finally tell the girl where she was born, and how she got to Privet Drive in the first place. He does so on a pleasant walk around the lake, on which he continuously offers her a steady flow of candies. On the same short journey on foot, he is the one to tell her of his plans to keep her safe—plans to which she responds positively. She could very well react in anger or sadness at both the news of her parents' identity, and the fact that she will have to work for that cold, frightening Malfoy man for an indefinite period. But she chooses to react positively, trusting Dumbledore's judgement and feeling more than a little relieved at the prospect of ceasing to be a burden upon him—and, more so, Remus.

But what Alice truly jumps at is the opportunity (which goes hand-in-hand with the other news) to finally learn how to do magic... with a wand.

Remus Lupin is the one to take her to Diagon Alley on the last day of June-a pleasantly blustery day, and uncharacteristically chilly for that time of year—chilly enough to warrant cloaks (to which Alice still has yet to accustom herself, along with the other regular Wizarding clothes—so different from the clothes she had usually worn under the guardianship of Ms. Figg). But the warm fabric serves her well on their stroll through the twisting and turning streets of Diagon Alley, on their way to Ollivander's.

Ollivander is long in responding to the tinkle of the doorbell as the young customer and her supervisor enter the shop. But when he does come, his eyes are bright with the promise of an exciting match—he can feel the power radiating from the girl's very presence. But, first, he sets about greeting the man. "Remus Lupin," he says with a nostalgic smile on his lips. "Let me see if I can recall correctly... Ten and a quarter inches, Cypress, Unicorn hair?"

Remus smiles and nods his head yes, impressed by the old wandmaker's memory. "You truly never forget a match, Ollivander."

"Never," says the old man. "And who is the human half of the match I'll be making today?" he says, shifting his attention to Alice.

"My name Is Alice," says Alice. For a moment, she considers telling him her last name—the last name she only recently learned was hers "Nott"-but Remus, sensing her thoughts, squeezes her shoulder with meaning, and she decides against using the name—though she does wish to experiment with the sound and shape of the name on her tongue. "Just Alice," she says with a simple smile.

"I see," says Ollivander. "Well, I must say that I'm very happy to see you here in the summer. The wands sometimes get confused in the busy fall season, with so many new witches and wizards coming in and out. But since you're the first we've had in two months or so, they should be well rested and prepared to make the proper choice."

"Excuse me... what do you mean, the proper choice?" says Alice.

A glittering smile comes onto Ollivander's stubbled face, and he leans down slightly, as though telling a secret. "The wand chooses the witch, my dear."

Then, he turns away from the two guests toward the seemingly endless shelves of wands, and puts his fingers to his temples, as though divining something—which perhaps, he is. Remus looks down at Alice and raises his eyebrows, causing her to cover her mouth and giggle silently before returning her focus to the concentrating wandmaker. "Come out, come out, wherever you are!" shouts the old man joyously, calling into the shelves, and pausing, as though giving the right wand a chance to call back to him. And it seems as though it does, for a moment later he mutters "Ah, yes... there's a start," and heads forward into the center aisle, reaching up above his head to draw a long, narrow, light-blue wand box from the shelves.

Ollivander removes it from the box tenderly and hands it out to her, but no sooner has she taken it in her hand, than the man quickly snatches it back, shaking his head to himself. "Not quite right," he mutters, placing it back into the box and setting it down on the nearby desk. Again, and again, he goes between the girl and the shelves, handing her wand after wand and taking them back just seconds after he's handed them to her. Alice grows confused quite quickly, wondering what the old man is getting at, but Remus squeezes her shoulder, offering support, and once, mutters "This happens to everyone—it can take quite a while for him to find the right one." But as time goes on, Alice becomes surer and surer that she is not the regular customer, and even Ollivander looks rather strained—the collection of discarded wand boxes now towering almost halfway to the ceiling on the desk in the corner.

"Very, very tricky," Olivander says aloud to himself, hands on his hips and shaking his head after nearly an hour of disappointment after disappointment has passed. "I have to tell you the truth, Alice: this has never happened to me before. Harry Potter was quite a challenging customer, but nowhere near as..."

But, then, the old wandmaker suddenly ceases to speak.

From a very high shelf in the farthest and dustiest corner of the room, a thin, medium-sized grey box has slid out of its place of its own volition, and begun to hover over the other shelves, making its way steadily through the air in the direction of Alice. Ollivander stands with his jaw loosened by the sight, as the box slows, and then descends until it stills and hovers directly in front of the girl, waiting for her to take it. Remus, too, has stepped back slightly from Alice in his surprise.

For a few moments, Ollivander tries to speak, but only succeeds in whispering and gasping, before he finally manages. "Well," he says tentatively, "go on and take it, my dear." Alice, trembling from surprise, follows orders and holds both hand out in front of her, the box settling down lightly onto her palms. "Open it," prompts the wandmaker.

The moment her fingertips so much as brush the wood of the handle, the room suddenly becomes a degree darker than before. A wind rushes down the street outside and a peculiar frost grows in a few glass panes of the windows... Alice, drawn in by the undeniable power of the wand, curls her fingers around the handle, holding It properly, feeling the weight in her hand. Suddenly, it's as though a direct line of tension has been formed between her very soul and the core of the wand. The frost disappears from the windows, the breeze intensifies and then slows, and the light in the room returns again, slowly, leaving something else to take over, something far more powerful and potent which no-one in the room can name.

"Very impressive," says Ollivander after a minute of silence, the shivers still not banished from his body. "Dragon heartstring, poplar wood, twelve inches, slightly flexible. This..." he says to Alice, who looks up at him, wide eyed, "is a very... very promising wand, my dear."

With a slightly wary smile, Ollivander turns and flicks his own wand, sending the non-matches back to the shelves, where they put themselves away. Remus takes out his pouch of money, saying quietly, "How much?" for there is something in the room which threatens to be shattered if a word is spoken too loudly. Remus holds out a handful of galleons to the old wandmaker.

But Ollivander shakes his head, a smile twisting one side of his mouth as he watches Alice, still staring down in awe at the wand in her hand. "Please," he says to Remus. "The look on her face is more than enough pay for a lifetime. Keep your gold."

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Over the next months, Alice's days and large portions of her nights are spend studying, mastering spells both simple and complex, and becoming mature in her magic and emotions. By the end of the independent study, guided by Dumbledore, Lupin and McGonagall in turn, she has put up very effective barriers.

But there are ample disappointments along the way, and at times the extreme power of the wand seems a hindrance rather than an asset, as channeling her power through another route she is so unaccustomed to is an extremely difficult task. She has many failures (including, once, accidentally causing one of the stone soldiers in the main entry hall to shatter), but also experiences may successes (including repairing that very same statue and making it walk around the castle-an entertaining time for all of the paintings in the corridors, as well).

Each and every trial pays off, and by the end of the summer, when late August comes all too soon, and the staff are preparing for the arrival of the students for another year, Alice is ready (at least in terms of magic) to enter upon her new world... alone.

And the post as caretaker to Lucius Malfoy's two sons Draco and Fynn awaits her, wide open.

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Sorry again for the delay! Funny enough, most of that extra time was spent figuring out what Alice's wand was going to be. Every part of it is symbolic: dragon heartstring (most powerful of all cores, learns fast, is loyal, but also turns most easily to the dark arts and can be temperamental), poplar wood (the rarest of woods, symbolizing integrity, extreme power and moral vision), twelve inch length (symbolizing extreme power and perfection), and slightly flexible (indicating that the wand-witch relationship will be slightly adaptable throughout their lifetime).

In this chapter I mentioned in passing that Lupin's eyes are grey—if you disagree, that's fine, my word is most definitely not law. But I don't believe his eye color was ever specifically mentioned in canon, and I've always imagined them to be grey.

Also I did have Harry call Alice his "best friend." I don't want to break up the golden trio whatsoever, but I imagine that at this point in Harry's life, the person who was there for him consistently throughout his childhood and during his isolated summers might take first place in terms of reliability (not in terms of Adventure, on which front Ron and Hermione certainly take the gold medal).

Just to let you all know, there may be a few times between now and the end of October that I won't be able to update as frequently as I have been. I have always been able to write quickly but even these chapters are starting to get to be a little much for daily updates. I will still be on top of writing these chapters—I am so in love with this story right now—but there comes a point when I do actually have to get other work done... sadly. How wonderful would it be if I had an infinite amount of time, to just sit on my bed and write fanfiction all day long? Alas... School.

Alice is certainly in trouble if she can't convince Lucius Malfoy to give her the position. And in much deeper trouble if he happens to remember her from that brief encounter in the corridor when he was on his way out of Hogwarts at the beginning of this chapter...

Thank you for not plagiarizing my writing!

On_Errand_Bad

9,407 words

Friday, 16 October 2020


	6. VI | Fall

Note:

Warning: The story is going to really start showing its mature rating in this chapter. I'm not joking around with this mature rating. I know that sometimes it's placed on a story with little sincerity, but this is very legitimate. Please proceed with caution.

Une-papillon-de-nuit, I continue to love and cherish your reviews!

Character / casting notes:

Fynn Malfoy is a character of my own invention, meant to be the younger brother to Draco, who Narcissa died giving birth to. In Gaelic, Fynn means white and fair, while in Greek, it means brown or dark. I love the coexistence of those two meanings in the same name—and Fynn will certainly serve as a battleground between good and evil throughout this chapter and the whole story.

I thought that Elizabeth Moss (who plays June in the recent TV series "The Handmaid's Tale" was just too perfect to pass up for Eloise's casting. Let me know if you agree.

Okay, bear with me for this next one... I've decided to cast Timothee Chalamet as Corbin Willoughby, the Malfoys' horse keeper. I hope you will trust me on this one—I'm not one-hundred percent sure of it, but I think on some level, it works. Just read onward and hopefully you'll understand.

(Also, as a general note, you have probably noticed that many actors I've used for the cast have been American. Please discount that nationality, and imagine them as best you can with English accents—most of them have probably put on an English accent at some point during their career, so clips of their voices in that mode may be available out in the ether of the internet if your imagination needs an extra boost).

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling the Utmost Venerable.

Chapter Six Totally Optional Cast (in order of appearance)

Anya Taylor-Joy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Alice  
Elizabeth Moss . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Eloise Wickham  
Jason Isaacs / Lee Pace / Harry Lloyd . . . . . Lucius Malfoy  
Jack Gleeson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Fynn Malfoy  
Timothee Chalamet . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Corbin Willoughby

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VI | Fall

1 September 1993  
Malfoy Manor

Alice hesitates before starting up the long front walk to the tall wrought iron gate before the Malfoy Manor. The slight coolness in the breeze is a harbinger of autumn, but sends chills rolling down her spine despite the delight she knows she will take in experiencing that season for the first time. Remus had accompanied her on the muggle train as far as he could, but she'd then had to leave him on her own, to walk the streets of Bath before locating the magical entryway upon the Malfoy grounds. Remus had squeezed her hand tightly before bidding her farewell, and she tries to hold onto the warmth of his skin by keeping her hand in a fist—but it is quickly leached away, leaving her with nothing but her small carpetbag and her wand.

She continues to walk, her black brogues refusing to turn around or sway from the path, though Alice has started to wonder just how much trust she should put in Dumbledore. Before she has a chance to truly consider her other options, though, she has arrived at the giant wrought iron gate, twice as tall as her, and cold to the touch. The midmorning light slants down from the grey-painted sky, seeming more dimmed than it should be, as though by dark magic. The girl stands waiting for a moment, before she notices the little bell hanging from one of the menacing black spikes. She gets on her toes to reach it, and rings it a few times, the tinkling sound just loud enough to reach the front of the manor further down the walk on the other side of the bars.

Promptly, a thirty year old woman comes out the front door, wearing a long-sleeved and high-collared black maid's dress, with buttons at the wrists and a hem that brushes against the ground as she walks. Her blonde hair is covered by a white cloth cap, and she wears her bird-like face plainly, her lips and cheeks infused with color only by the shock of the chilly morning.

"Appointment?" says the woman upon reaching the gate, looking through the bars at the newcomer with a warning look in her eyes.

"I have no appointment. My name is Alice—I'm here to apply for the post as caretaker to Mr. Malfoy's sons," says Alice, the words forming shakily on her tongue, but less so than she'd worried—for there is something in the maid's face which makes her feel at ease. Or, at least, not alone in her skittishness.

"Of course," says the maid with an edge of nervousness in her voice, and a flash in her eyes that makes Alice suddenly worried, once more. "My name is Eloise. Let me show you inside, Alice."

She takes her to wait in a very dark room just off the entryway of the Manor. The entire structure of the giant house is heavy, crouched above her, and It's far colder inside than it had been, outdoors. She is left to wait alone for a seemingly endless two minutes, during which she can't stop staring at a painting on the opposite wall: a sleek panther paces very slowly between one side of the frame and the other, watching her with luminescent eyes.

Eloise carries in a tray of tea for her, and the two of them sit down in small chairs with red fabric upholstery, Alice on one side of the room, and Eloise on the other, the air between cold, dark and dusty. After a few minutes, Eloise looks up at the girl with an odd, slightly disturbed smile, and sets her teacup down on it saucer with an echoing 'clink.' She says, in her quiet, casual tone, "You shouldn't be here. It's dangerous." Her voice is both small and loud in the space. She stares blankly at the girl for a moment longer before picking up her teacup again and taking a silent sip, as though nothing had ever been said.

"Why?" says Alice quietly.

But she's too late, for suddenly, a whoosh of frigid air enters the cavernous room, as Lucius appears in the entryway. Eloise quickly stands up from her chair, setting the tea and saucer down, and Alice mimics her in clasping her hands in front of her and bowing her head slightly as the white-haired wizard steps into the room, his serpent-head cane clicking menacingly against the black floorboards.

"Miss Wickham," says his cold voice to Eloise. "Who have we here?" Both of them remain looking at the floor for a few stagnant moments, Alice's eyes boring into the wood, before Lucius steps further forward. Step, step, step, the heavy sound at once absorbed by the heavy curtains, tapestries and paintings; and echoing in the corners far overhead. Until, when Alice's gaze flickers upward, she can see the hem of his moneyed robes just a meter from the tips of her shoes. "You may look at me," says the cold deep voice again, sending a chill curling around her neck like a deadly serpent.

It takes a moment for her instincts to allow her to look up into the frigid, calculating face, barely managing to keep her own features still and free of trembles, though within, pierced by the wizard's icy eyes, she is nervous enough to simply disappear. The sudden threat he poses to her is undeniable, and she not only fears that he might somehow divine her identity, but that he might also give her up to the Notts—which, she knows intuitively, would be the beginning of her end.

But her face remains strong against the storm of fears, and Lucius's face does not betray any malicious intent.

"For the position-" starts Eloise from across the room, attempting to introduce Alice, still looking at the ground.

But Lucius cuts her off coldly, saying "I gathered," without looking away from the girl's face once. "What is your name?" he asks.

"Alice."

His face remains as dark and cold as before, not even the vaguest flickering of emotion crossing behind his eyes. "And how old are you?"

"Fifteen, Mr. Malfoy."

"And where do you come from?"

"Saint Frances convent, in Wiltshire, sir," Alice says, reciting one of the list of components constituting her false identity that Dumbledore had coached her on over the summer.

Lucius looks at her for a while, not even a slight narrowing of his eyes betraying his inner thoughts, leaving Alice to betray herself, or not... a wise tactic, the girl thinks, securing her jaw against his offence and maintaining her neutral expression. Two can play at the unreadable game.

After a time, he turns on his heel, walking past Eloise and out into the entryway, once again. The maid looks up for the first time, following him confusedly with her gaze, and Alice's eyebrows furrow at his action. The two look at each other as Lucius turns a corner in the hallway, passing out of sight. A quiet descends upon them until, suddenly, his voice echoes back to them through the corridors down which he has already traveled. "Follow."

"You ought to hurry," warns Eloise. "He walks quickly." And Alice, taking her carpetbag and wand with her, runs with soft footsteps past the woman and out of the room.

Lucius's strides are long and powerful, and she has to work hard to catch up and keep up as he strides through the dark, wide corridors, and up a grand, monstrous staircase to the second floor.

"You're too late to meet them both," he informs her as he walks. "The eldest, Draco, just left on the train to school. But Fynn is of the most concern, anyway." From the way he talks of his children, and the latter, in particularly, Alice fears that, perhaps, the younger boy might pose a great challenge.

The Manor is overwhelmingly huge, even more expansive than she ever could have imagined from the outside, and as they pass through the corridors her head begins to spin—she doubts she will ever be able to find her way alone through the dark, hardwood maze.

Malfoy's pace slows as he approaches an open doorway, midway down the main second-story hallway, through which hushed sounds of lonely play can be heard. He stands beside the door and looks at her intensely, motioning his head slightly, bidding her go through the door.

She does so, planting herself just over the threshold, her footsteps quiet as she cautiously observes, and then approaches the little white-haired boy playing with a wooden horse in the center of a massive rug. He doesn't look up at her, or at his father, but it's clear that he is aware of their presence, for he has stopped making sounds to accompany the pitiful movements of the toy, and something plaintive and wary has entered his downcast blue eyes. The boy cannot be more than three years old—Alice approaches him cautiously, knowing she wouldn't be able to bear if he recoiled from her. But he does nothing of the sort as she slowly sinks down to her knees, setting aside her carpetbag and keeping her wand in hand.

"What's your name?" she says quietly to him, though she already knows, from his father's brief lecture in the corridor.

"Fynn," he says in a quiet, soft voice, still not looking up at the stranger.

"That's a very strong name," says Alice, matching his volume. "I'm Alice."

An idea plants itself in her mind, and with a small smile, she draws up her wand, whispering "Piertotum Locomotor," under her breath, and performing the correct wand movement.

Suddenly, the wooden toy horse becomes animated, and gallops in circles around him on the carpet, whinnying and rearing up, making the boy laugh, his eyes sparkling as he looks up at Alice.

She has forgotten entirely about Lucius's presence in the doorway, and so jumps slightly when he speaks, his voice cold, but incapable of penetrating the warmth that has suddenly spread in a protective bubble around herself and the boy. "You begin immediately," says Lucius monotonously. "I will review the expectations with you later, when I have more time at my disposal. For now, Miss Wickham will show you around the house and grounds. I have business to attend to."

He leaves without another look into the playroom, his cape billowing out behind him as he hurries down the hall. But Alice and Fynn are unfazed, both of them kneeling on the carpet and smiling, watching the horse prance in circles, around and around.

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Life in the Manor comes to be surprisingly simple and secure, despite Alice's initial wariness of what Eloise had said to her when they'd first met.

Daily, Alice and Eloise take Fynn on long walks around the grounds, witnessing the beautiful change of the seasons. Alice is introduced to Corbin Willoughby, who keeps and cares for the estate's five beautiful horses—a nervous young man, but he is warm enough to Alice, and she comes to enjoy his company.

Her day-to-day existence is simpler than it has ever been, and Alice quickly comes to adore the sense of freedom that comes with playing with Fynn on the grounds. At times, when she is laying in her too-large bed (she sleeps not in the servants quarters but on the same floor as Fynn's room, the better to be near him in the night), that she feels slightly trapped, the heaviness of the house, and a certain darkness, trickling around her. But even then, she is too exhausted, and falls asleep too quickly to become too troubled.

It can still be quite difficult to control her emotions at times, to stifle the extent of her true powers-especially on one occasion when she and Fynn are passing through a stretch of woods to reach the pond on the other side, and one of the Malfoys' two giant albino peacocks scares her half to death by simply stepping out from behind a tree. But as the household, the grounds, and the pattern that days start to fall into (morning meal, morning walk, midday meal, indoor play, outdoor walk, bedtime) grow more familiar to her, her magic becomes simpler to control. And at times, she can even trick herself into forgetting how much effort her subconscious is actively channeling into keeping a low magical profile.

Lucius Malfoy is, for the most part, a presence only in her mind. He is always away, busy, or otherwise brooding somewhere alone, so her days are spent largely unbothered by him. She and Eloise become fast companions, and Alice, in turn, seems to come as a relieving presence to the stable boy Corbin, who delights at the chance to teach her how to ride a horse. An unmatchable joy springs into her chest when she first takes Fynn up with her for a slow walk, with Corbin holding the bridle: the little boy's eyes brightening at the feeling of being on a real horse, after only every playing with miniature wooden ones in the nursery.

Ironically, Lucius requests the stable boy's presence in the house more than he ever asks for Alice's.

On one particular day, Fynn is away from the manor along with his father for reasons undisclosed, and Eloise is tied up with errands on behalf of the kitchen staff. Alice stays part of the day with Corbin in the stables, helping him tend to the horses and feeling such a friendliness towards him that she regrets not being able to tell him of her true identity, her true purpose at the Manor. Then, later in the afternoon, she moves indoors and out of the chill to wander around the Manor.

She attempts to acquaint herself with a number of the house elves, remembering Dobby's loneliness, and how he had recounted his misery while enslaved at the Malfoy house. But none of them so much as acknowledge her, hurrying away. She wonders at how easily she could free them with even the simplest pieces of clothing-but knows that doing so would be far too dangerous to risk and might, given Lucius Malfoy's volatile nature, result in grave consequences to her person.

In her wonderings she happens upon a painting: the corner of its frame sticking out from behind a curtain meant to hide it. She steps up to it curiously, pulling the curtain aside and sticking her head under it to peek at the painting beneath. She gasps when she does: it is a giant dark painting of a profoundly pale woman with brown eyes, beautiful lips and black and white hair. On the bottom of the frame, on a small golden plaque, is engraved: Narcissa Malfoy nee Black: 1955 – 1991.

For many minutes the girl examines the painted face, the dark eyes, wondering what sort of a woman Lucius Malfoy's wife had been before her passing. She would like to believe that she had been a gracious mother and wife, and that Lucius's hardness is partly due to her absence—but something in those painted eyes tells her that this optimistic idea would be hard-pressed to be the actual case.

After a short minute, footsteps can be hears echoing in the corridor outside, and the girl quickly replaces the curtain, her heart speeding up in her chest at the feeling that she's been doing something quite criminal by looking at the hidden painting of the dead woman. But the footsteps pose no true threat, and pass right by.

On one day in Mid-October, Lucius receives a letter his eldest son Draco's hand from Hogwarts, complaining of an injury at the hooves of a hippogriff. The wizard passes many hours in a state of thick anger: going around cursing about Rubeus Hagrid and Albus Dumbledore's stupidity.

But soon after, the letter is forgotten as the household falls to preparing for the annual Pureblood Hallowe'en ball, to be hosted this year at Malfoy Manor.

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On the night of the thirty-first, the guests, (with the notable exception of the Weasleys) all members of the twenty-eight 'sacred' families of purest blood, fill the giant ballroom of the Malfoy manor. The servants have spent days fixing the room up to perfection-the chandeliers are adorned with bright candles, making the crystal on the tables below glisten.

Dark vines with maroon leaves adorn the edges of the room and the dance floor has been polished rigorously. From the corner, a string quartet plays the ancestral waltzes of the original trifecta of pureblood Slytherin families, and maids wearing simple black dresses and white caps float around among the guests silently and modestly, bearing champagne and a few secret flasks of pumpkin juice for the younger dancers—though most of the latter are caught up swapping partners at lightning speed on the dance floor.

The Hallowe'en ball has been long known to produce some of the most successful marriage matches, and many of the young ladies have come bedecked in the finest fabrics, their skirts wide and swaying, much to the suppressed envy of many older wives, who cling like nauseous birds to their rickety husbands' arms on the sidelines.

Eloise has been drawn into the group of maids serving champagne and sneaking pumpkin juice to some of the child guests (too young to be in school but too old to stay home), standing bored beside their parents, seeing no worthy opportunity to make any sort of exciting mischief. So, Corbin and Alice, left to their own devices without their older unifier, keep each other quiet company, standing in one corner of the ballroom, remote from the larger gatherings of people, and thus, furthest from attention. Alice thinks Corbin looks quite strange dressed up so nicely: his crisp white shirt and black robes a drastic change from his usual working slacks and shirt—but she doesn't dare tell him so, for something in him seems particularly fragile tonight.

And besides, her attention is quickly stolen away from any thought of something so simple as clothing, by the arrival of Haden and Vanessa Nott, slightly later than the other guests, but not so late as to be rude. She recognizes them immediately—simply knows who they are in her very bones—and thus feels slighted when the announcer reads off their names to the other guests, inciting some scattered applause among those not dancing.

The girl watches her mother and father with the utmost intensity from her reclusive, hidden corner, craning her neck as they move between the other older guests and once take to the dance floor, swaying modestly to one of the more mellow waltzes played by the quartet. She watches Haden's dark green cloak whip around the ankles of his boots, and watches the narrow skirt of Vanessa's deep purple gown swirl as she turns. Something about them seems so innocent, so desirable that a great well of pain and disheartenment comes into her throat at what had been told to her about their past decisions—how they had fought for Voldemort in the first war, how her father had tortured and killed the innocent while her mother had steeped in her own inactivity and depression at home.

And then, as Alice comes to consider this in greater depth over the endless minutes, she wonders how many of the others in the ballroom (all of them seeming so well and like fine individuals in their own right) have done things even more terrible than she could ever imagine.

And she is more right than she could believe: among the guests, though they retain a thread of formal talk, there is far more that is unsaid than that which is given voice to. Between each of the dancers and onlookers is a common network of unstated facts, tying each to every other, inextricably.

Bellatrix Lestrange is in Azkaban, along with countless others who would have otherwise joined the company tonight, but they do not talk of the imprisoned. They do not talk of the war, either, or of the defeated Dark Lord, alongside whom most of them fought. They do not acknowledge the physical wounds which are hidden beneath decadent robes and gowns, which had been gained in common battle, or the wounds of those of their group who had been imprisoned. But the greatest thing kept silent is the shared understanding that those who are there, still living, in the ballroom, are there not only because of sheer luck, but because, in some cases, they had been smarter than their currently-imprisoned counterparts. Or, at least, more corrupt.

After all, most of them had committed even worse war-crimes than those in Azkaban, and had only narrowly escaped life sentences by paying their way out—bribing some very high ranking people, all the way up through the levels of the Ministry, and straight to the Minister himself, in some cases, in order to keep their property and freedom.

But all of this silent darkness is covered up masterfully by a gilded, formal and even celebratory mood which they create for themselves out of thin air. Lucius, for example, holds Fynn in his arms for the first time since Alice has resided in the household, eliciting much adoration (or at least the appearance of adoration) from his guests.

Fynn, however, is uncomfortable in his father's arms (even if Alice is one of the few who can see this to be the case), and squirms as though in an attempt to get away. Alice, knowing that Lucius would be upset to say the least if others noticed his son's tendency to recoil from him, thinks fast: biting the insides of her cheeks with her molars in deep concentration, she conjures a little white butterfly, and makes it flit about above the dancers' heads. In effect, Fynn is distracted, and ceases in his squirming, effectively cheered and relaxed by the magic.

But it only lasts a minute before one of the young men on the dance floor becomes distracted from his dance partner's painstakingly done-up face by the fluttering white wings above, near one of the chandeliers. "Careful," Corbin murmurs to Alice, nodding his head in the direction of the young man, and Alice waits until the butterfly is separated from the unintended witness by the light of multiple candles before making it disappear suddenly. The young man on the dance floor shakes his head, clearly believing himself to have been seeing things, and promptly returns his attention to the young woman spinning around him.

Alice smiles a small smile to herself, proud that she'd amended her mistake before the magic could be traced back to her, and then smiles reassuringly at Fynn, who seems to understand that it is important for him to allow himself to be held by Lucius for a little while longer.

Eloise, too, had noticed the butterfly, and she makes eye contact with Alice from across the ballroom, raising a conspirator's eyebrow just before bowing her head, holding out her tray of champagne to a small group of women on the edge of the dance floor.

Thus there is no further risk posed to the fluidity of the event by Alice's spells, and the dancing goes on uninterrupted.

But the gilded mood of the dance is quickly dispelled when a small messenger wearing black robes steals into the ballroom and whispers something in Lucius's ear. The messenger had attempted to be discreet, but the rapidity of his entrance and prompt exit attracts the attention of other guests, and all of the musicians.

The formal festivities slowly dissolve into scattered whispers of worry as the music fades and then becomes nonexistent, and the just-received news spreads like wildfire throughout the guests. News that one Sirius Black, who had escaped miraculously from Azkaban that summer, has now broken into Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry—where most of their children are currently staying.

Promptly the façade of politeness and fluidity is worn away, and the darkness starts to creep out into the open, like black bugs crawling from the underside of a disturbed log in the woods. Suddenly, they are unified only by the thought that Sirius Black is a traitor in their eyes, and a dangerous madman—and this gives them more than enough cause to suddenly be gripped by fright for their children, who are suddenly at his mercy.

In just a handful of minutes, most of the guests have become uncomfortable and promptly excused themselves from the manor after thanking Lucius superficially, hurrying out of the ballroom to the designated apparition point in the corridor outside.

Once the ballroom has drained entirely of his guests, Lucius, too, leaves the room, and the servants are left to start cleaning up. Eloise and Corbin disappear into the controlled, almost choreographed, madness of the clean-up, an intricate pattern of tasks disturbed only by Alice as she hurries across the ballroom to claim the abandoned Fynn, taking him up in her arms. She escapes quickly into the now-quiet hall, carrying him up the stairs and towards his room, quelling his curiosities by fashioning another butterfly to distract him as she steals quietly through the halls and stairways, feeling it necessary after the unexpected turn of events to remain as silent as possible.

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After singing Fynn gently to sleep, she remains there with him a bit longer, her body balancing on the edge of his small bed, her fingers brushing aside the white locks of his hair as she watches the tender rise and fall of his chest beneath his nightclothes.

But before too long, she decides to leave him there, and, easing her body from the mattress, creeps silently out of the bedroom, bypassing the door to her own room and starting down the stairs, aiming to go to the servants' quarters to ask Eloise a burning question: Who is Sirius Black?

The house is eerily quiet, and the silence only takes on magnitude as she goes down more and more staircases, eventually making it to the ground floor and then descending further. On the first underground floor, though, she hears a muffled sound from somewhere nearby. She pauses in her tracks, looking in the direction of the sound, and then feeling worry spike inside of herself when she hears it a second time—the same sound repeated almost exactly, at a higher pitch—clearly a sound of pleading; a pained whimper.

Worried, and incapable of resisting her curiosity, and her instinct to protect, Alice redirects her footsteps from their previous course, and follows the sound—which only continues to repeat, increasing in urgency as she grows nearer.

As she comes to stand just outside the door she realizes, all at once, that the pleading voice is Corbin's and, shocked, she doesn't hesitate before taking the doorknob in hand. Finding it locked, she whispers, "Alohomora," and then, with an outward breath of bravery, she pushes the door inward.

Corbin is the first one she sees: cowering in the corner with his knees tucked up to his chest and his head turned away, completely naked. She almost starts forward towards him but, upon opening the door a bit wider, Lucius comes into view, holding his cane aloft, his cape on the floor at his heels and his hair disheveled. The wizard turns to her slowly with a menacing smile on his face and says, his voice chilling with a razor-sharp edge, "Turn around and walk away, little dove."

Alice concentrates every fiber of her being on keeping her shock at bay, loosening her fingers around her wand and breathing in slowly. Corbin refuses to look at her, though her eyes bore stunned and horrified holes into his head. And though the girl hates herself for it, she cannot help but wither under Lucius Malfoy's icy gaze, and so she closes the door and does just what he'd told her to do, walking back down the hallway with measured steps and descending onward to the servants' quarters, her heart brimming with terror.

Eloise is easy to find: she is the last maid in the kitchen, tonight, polishing the champagne flutes and magically sending them to organize themselves on a shelf above the Wizarding oven. But Alice has no time or patience for marveling at the magical kitchen technology, and instead heads straight for her older companion, who turns upon noticing her, and sets down her work, seeing the girl's drained face and skittish eyes.

After being helped to sit down on a stool, Alice relays to Eloise everything that she had seen in the room upstairs, shaking by the end from an evil inkling that something even worse had been about to happen, something for which she had no name. Eloise confirms her suspicions by breathing in deeply, and then out again, her mind reeling as she prepared to tell the younger girl the dirtiest secret there is to be known around the Malfoy household.

"Mr. Malfoy makes a habit of rerouting his anger away from his sons, and taking it out on his servants, instead. But... that... is reserved for an unlucky few."

"What do you mean?" Alice says.

"Rape," whispers Eloise under her breath. This is a word that Alice only knows from the violent crime pages of the muggle newspapers that she would read when Ms. Figg wasn't looking. But now for the first time she seems to understand it's meaning better than ever before. "He's been doing it to Corbin for a time. There was another maid he had a while ago, who was his favorite—she was the governess for Draco and Fynn before you arrived to fill her post."

"Did she run away?" Alice asks, barely able to form coherent words through her feelings of horror and disgust.

"She was sent away," Eloise tells her with a shake of her head. "Sent away to somewhere even worse."

A jolt of cold terror shivers through Alice as she realizes the implications, and the sudden danger of her position, especially as she now holds the title of 'witness,' having seen the situation between the house's master and the stable boy in the room upstairs a few minutes before.

Eloise feels the panic emanating from her young counterpart's body, but knows that there is nothing she can do to help her, at least not for now. "You ought to hurry back up to your room. You shouldn't be found down here, and, besides, the house is a troubling place, tonight. Fynn might need you, upstairs."

So, taking her leave without another word, Alice goes back up the small servants' staircase, with it in mind to return to her room, get warm under the covers, and try to forget about the entire issue. When she gets to the floor just above, there is no sound whatsoever coming from that dangerous room down the hall—and somehow, this seems even more worrisome than if there had been screams.

She checks on Fynn quietly, finding him still fast asleep, before taking refuge in her own room. She takes off her day clothes quickly, replacing them with a rather stuffy servants' nightgown she'd been issued upon her arrival at the Manor, realizing that she'd completely forgotten to ask Eloise her original question about Sirius Black's identity. With anxiety poking at her insistently, she heads into bed, knowing that getting to sleep with all the events of the night still so present in her blood will be nearly impossible.

But no sooner does her head touch the pillow, than a sputtering sound can be heard from the small fireplace across the room, which she'd set earlier that morning to keep away the cold, and whose embers had been kept alive through the hours by the strength of the magic which had originally built it. She sits up sharply in bed at the sound, and looks over towards the fireplace, where suddenly the ashes have shaped themselves into a face—the face of Remus Lupin.

For a moment, she is so startled (still shaken and easily frightened from Eloise's news), her heart pounding in her chest, that fire flares up again in the fireplace as an extension of her emotion. But then quickly, calming herself, the flames disappear again, and she steps out of bed onto the freezing floor in her stocking feet. She mutters the Imperturbable Charm over her chamber door, before kneeling down on the rug before the fire, and staring, rapt, at the perfect cast of Remus's face in the embers.

"How are you doing this?" she asks in wonder, a smile quickly banishing the negative emotions crowding her heart at the sight of his familiar features.

"Yet another use of the floo network, my dear," says Lupin, his voice only slightly changed by the medium through which it is relayed to her. "I'm so sorry that I'm only now contacting you for the first time. I couldn't risk showing up in the wrong fireplace, you see. How have you been managing?"

"Quite well," says Alice quickly, not wanting to betray her true discomfort and fear to the wizard. "The little boy, Fynn, is an angel."

"Hmm," says Remus to himself, "an angel quite misplaced in that household, then, I'd wager." His ember-sculpted forehead shifts in thoughtfulness and after another moment of considering the girl's face, he says carefully, "But that's not all, is it, Alice? Is something wrong?"

Thinking fast, Alice decides not to tell him what she'd seen between Lucius and Corbin, instead casting her feelings off as something else entirely. "I am a bit worried by something, actually... do you know Draco, the older sibling?"

"Of course I know Draco Malfoy," says Lupin with a hint of distaste.

"What's he like?"

Lupin's face moves slightly as he tries to put it gently to the girl. "He's... troubled," he says after a time. "But he tries very much not to show it. And often, he does so in the wrong ways."

Alice nods her head at his answer, but suddenly a spark of fear appears inside of her, as she wonders whether, perhaps, Draco had ever been subjected to the same horrors that Corbin was regular victim to. The thought of the boy—Harry's age, she knows, and not too far from her own—being abused so terribly by his own father is unbearable. And she shivers to think what Draco might be like, as a result, if this were the case.

"How are Harry, Hermione and Ron?" Alice asks, quickly hiding away the new flame of worry, saving it for later examination.

"All are doing well," says Lupin, "but Harry has been in quite a state after Sirius Black's..." Lupin soon realizes that he had kept the news of Sirius's escape from Azkaban away from Alice's ears during their time at Hogwarts, and wishes he hadn't said anything. But he knows it's far too late by the brightening of her eyes, and the way her head bends further towards the embers in the fireplace.

"I heard about him at the ball, tonight. How did he escape from Azkaban? And how did he get into Hogwarts?"

"I don't know, Alice," says Remus. "But everyone is perfectly safe—the students are sleeping in the great hall tonight, and a number of us teachers have been sent out to search the castle and grounds." Alice's face contorts in one of worry, both for her friends and for the man at the other end of the floo network, as her minds concocts all sorts of terrible possibilities as to Sirius Black's identity and the threat he poses.

Remus, knowing what she's thinking, stops her before her mind can run too far away. "But wait a moment, Alice. First, you must let me explain just who Sirius Black is. I was best of friends with him at Hogwarts, before everything else. He would help me... with my more difficult school subjects, and we made some terrible mischief together. But then, after the War, he was framed for betraying Lily and James Potter, and sent to Azkaban. So, you say, he's quite harmless, contrary to popular belief."

"But how did he escape?" Alice says, enthralled, chills springing up along her arms and neck at the story.

"Sirius is an Animagus," Lupin says, giving Alice a moment to recall the term before continuing. "I believe the most probably theory to be had would be that he turned into a dog, and crept right past the dementors."

"Dementors?" says the girl, a new kind of chill coming into her body, one which leaning closer to the fireplace cannot banish.

"The Azkaban guards," Remus explains, his voice lowering. "Dark, dark beings, Alice. They feed on an individual's happiest memories so that, if they are allowed, they can rob a person of their entire soul with their 'kiss.' And a whole army of them have been floating around the Hogwarts grounds ever since the beginning of the year, as a so-called precaution. Harry has had quite a bit of bad luck with them, actually—one tried to kiss him before he even arrived in September, on the train, and Gryffindor lost last week's Quidditch match after he came upon one in midair over the pitch. His prized broom flew into the Whomping Willow and was destroyed; he spent days in the hospital wing after his fall."

Alice thinks she hears a creaking sound in the corridor outside, and suddenly her body turns rigid. She doesn't trust the spell on the door to work completely, so says, very quietly, "I think I ought to go get some sleep," hoping that Remus won't take her words as rude.

"I completely understand. And I should be out looking for Sirius. Pray Severus Snape doesn't find him, first." And without giving Alice a chance to ask after the identity of Severus Snape, Remus bids her a gentle goodnight, and promptly disappears from the fireplace.

Alice lays down for a time in her own bed, but the room has become extremely cold—more from the horrible feeling she has from not confessing the truth of her circumstances to Remus Lupin, than from the frigid winds blowing just beyond the windowpane.

So just minutes later, she gets up again, pulling a night cloak on over her nightdress and tiptoeing across the empty corridor, laying down on the thick rug next to Fynn's bed and staying there throughout the night, the sound of the young boy's steady breathing banishing her aloneness, dampening her fear and lulling her to sleep.

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As October yields to November, Lucius becomes more cruel outwardly than Alice has ever seen him before. He kicks his house elves down stairs, hitting them with his cane if he's in a foul mood, and his very presence in the house is threatening to the girl, though she still rarely sees him.

Alice takes to the grounds with Fynn as often as she can, sometimes keeping them outside until her toes start to freeze, and then finally consenting to going inside—but just for a short while, to warm up and then come right back out, again. They spend much of their time in the stables, Fynn sitting with the help of a protective spell on top of one of the horses while Corbin (who remains silent about that night when Alice had seen him naked in the basement room, and subject to Lucius's whims) and Alice brush the others' manes, barely looking at each other, let alone conversing. Everywhere, there is a feeling of being spied upon.

Eloise, who accompanies the other three as often as she can outdoors, tells Alice that Lucius's temperament is partly because November is the month when his wife Narcissa had died—also the month of Fynn's birthday, but Lucius will have no celebration, as it had been the boy's own birth which caused the death of the woman he'd (supposedly) loved.

Regardless of Lucius's refusal of a larger party, Eloise and Alice work together to assemble a small celebration for Fynn's fourth birthday. He has no friends to invite, but they make a cake for him, in the muggle fashion (without using even a bit of magic to expedite the process), and spend the day along with Corbin in a magically-warmed bubble in the woods outside.

On that very day, however, their simple festivities are interrupted sharply by the appearance of Lucius at the edge of their safe bubble of warmth. Corbin's shoulders curl forward immediately at the sight of the wizard, thinking that the man's purpose there is to ask for his 'company' inside the manor.

But instead, this time, it is Alice that Lucius asks for.

"I have a matter of pressing importance to discuss with you," is the way he puts it. And as she looks warily at Eloise, and leaves Finn in the older witch's hands, departing the warm bubble to walk a few paces behind Lucius Malfoy back to the manor, Alice can only hope that he truly means what he'd said; that a discussion is all that awaits her, indoors.

His study is chillingly warm, a fireplace lit with enchanted green flames on the far wall. The room faces the grounds behind the manor, and when Alice first enters the room, she looks out the large windows on the foggy day, the worry banished momentarily from her heart at the beautiful sight. She can see the small ribbon of woods, and the silver-surfaced pond beyond, ready to freeze with the slightest drop in temperature.

But she is brought back to the danger of her situation when she spots the albino peacock (the symbol of the Malfoys' propriety and statue in society, necessitating good behavior). It is visible from far away, a white speck amidst the trees of the dark blue woods—and something about how far away they are from it, here, in his study, makes Alice feel quite unsafe. Lucius is free to be whatever he desires, in the dangerous privacy of this room—and no societal expectations are present to stop him.

"Sit," he says to Alice, motioning to a chair on the subordinates' side of his giant ebony-wood desk. She moves over to it silently and sits down with her hands clasped and situated between her quivering knees, as Lucius sits back in the menacing black, throne-like chair on the other side of the desk. He considers her for a time with those cold eyes for a time, before his lip twitches once, twice. "Is there anything you would like to tell me, before we begin?" he says.

The girl knows he is offering her a chance to, in a sense, 'redeem' herself, but she is unwilling to take it, knowing how easy it would be to betray herself by spilling information he doesn't already know. So, she doesn't' do anything at all in response to his question; merely keeping her head still, and not quite looking into his blue eyes.

"Pity," he says after a minute, the syllables that cause his teeth to come in contact like ice rattling through her blood. His posture changes in his chair, and he seems to lean forward slightly, without sacrificing his position of ease, of superiority. "You see, Alice Nott, I know who you are." He pauses, taking delight in the expression on her face as she truly registers his words. "I know who you were born to, where you were taken from, where you were taken to, and by whom. I know of your connections with that blockhead Albus Dumbledore, and The Wolf."

Alice's face falls even further into despair at this last, her shoulders curling inward at the implications of Lucius's words. "Oh, you didn't know?" says Lucius with a wicked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I would have thought a young witch as crafty as yourself would have pieced his monthly disappearances together by now. Though, to be fair, it took me quite a while, too, when I was in school with the freak."

Alice feels a tear suddenly slip from the corner of her eye and roll down her cheek. She never would have guessed that Remus was a Werewolf—but now that Lucius says it so blatantly to her, she feels daft for not having known it sooner. Of course, Lupin wouldn't ever have told her that his visits to Siberia were for the sake of others' safety. Likely, he was ashamed of his condition in the first place. A shiver of guilt rolls through her, and she continues to cry silently as it all comes into place.

The other contributor to her tears is the wave of dread that has rolled over her, and remained there, as though frozen in time, at the news of Lucius's knowledge of her true lineage. Dumbledore had warned her of the horrors that could ensue if she were taken into the clutches of certain dark individuals who wanted to manipulate her for her powers-and her greatest fear, in effect, has become that one such person might change her fundamentally, and that she would do bad with her abilities; that she would harm herself and her friends.

But one spark of hope lingers in the girl's heart, for Lucius has said nothing about knowing anything about the true extent of her magical abilities. She has kept herself safe on that front, at least—and good thing, too, for she is now sure beyond a doubt that if he knew about her power, he would be the first in line to subject her to just the sort of manipulation which she fears more than anything else in the world.

"Please," Alice manages through her rolling tears, "don't tell my parents I'm theirs." The plea sounds pitiful in her ears, and she is surprised to no end when Lucius's resulting smile doesn't accompany an outright denial of her request.

"I will do nothing of the sort, my dear," he says, his tone dripping with sarcastic concern. "As long as you agree to remain here. I must admit, my son is happier than I have seen him in his life."

Something in Lucius's eyes, deep behind their icy surfaces, seems to melt with sadness, but Alice has to quickly erase the thought from her head, knowing how dangerous it would be if she came to sympathize with him.

"You have become a true mother to him," the wizard continues. Something about the way he says the word 'mother' is terrible to the girl, and she feels her spine straining against the back of her chair, her every instinct screaming for her to escape the room—but her discipline, and her understanding that the man before her holds every advantage over her in this situation, keeps her glued stiffly to the chair.

She watches him anxiously for any sign of inner thought, but he offers her not even the slightest hint. After a minute of silence, drafts blowing in through the quietly rattling windows from the freezing outdoors, his mouth draws up into its terrible smirk, and he leans forward, the white strands of his hair shifting on his velvet-draped shoulders.

"However..." he begins, "as the muggles say, Miss Nott: double the bread, double the butter." Slowly, his every move indicative of his superiority, he stands from his chair and walks with measured steps around the edge of his giant desk, standing over her. The sudden quiet in his voice causes its intensity to triple, and his eyes cut into her skin. "My silence does come at an additional price."

She shivers as he walks around the back of her chair, his footsteps resounding on the floor, the green flames hissing from the fireplace across the room. "I have no money," she says, her voice small.

His footsteps cease as he comes to a standstill, a dark chuckle lodging in his throat. "There are... other forms of payment. Do not pretend to be a fool, girl."

She wants to scream for help, to pray that some kind soul might exist in the house, and that they might come to her rescue. But instead she sits silently, her whole body overtaken by trembles, as Lucius bends down over her, placing his large cold hand on her knee and looking into her eyes with a disabling intensity, his intentions clear on his face.

But this slow start does not trick the girl, and before she knows it, she has stood up from the chair, her legs carrying her shakily towards the door out of the study.

"Alice-" Lucius calls out darkly from behind her, causing her next footstep to hesitate above the floorboards. "You know what you have to do. Stop."

The moment of stillness is enough for him to lunge for and catch her around the waist, his powerful arm clamping her body against his chest. She wails, trying to get away, her arms reaching out for the closed door halfway across the room, but in her effort her knees buckle, and Lucius tackles her the rest of the way to the ground. Alice cries out sharply as her leg collapses at an unnatural angle beneath her, but the injury is the least of her worries as Lucius claps a hand over her mouth and nose, keeping virtually any breath from entering her body.

Her body straining to survive, she continues to squirm and kick, up until the moment at which the wizard settles his entire weight over her small body, pinning her to the floor, and crushing her lungs. Her vision fills with sizzling blue specks, the rush of adrenaline to escape her assaulter dampened by a contrasting survival instinct of even greater force: the instinct to save what little air remains inside of her body. Her body understands then and there, though her mind is still racing, that a choice must be made between getting away and remaining alive—and, as is its job, her body chooses the second option, for her.

He ruins her there on the floor, heedless of the screams and pleading whimpers of pain which she tries with all her might to force past his hand, never once giving up or falling silence, despite the hopelessness of her position. Her bones grind through her skin against the cold wood as he moves violently behind her, blistering pain taking over her entire body, tears wetting her cheeks as she screams, and screams, and realizes slowly, inevitably, that nobody can hear her.

After he is done, his member pumping a disgusting and inescapable dampness into her, he stands up, puts his clothes back in order, and tells her to return outside. "You wouldn't want to miss the cake," he says, his voice full of malice, before he turns and leaves the room.

But Alice cannot peel herself off of the freezing floor. She remains there, feeling the warm wetness from her body's struggle beading on the wood, joining Lucius Malfoy's lingering fluids, for what seems an eternity—before, finally, her limbs, working of their own accord, shakily bring her to her feet. Smoothing the rumpled skirt of her dress over her traumatized legs, she looks around, bleary-eyed, before she turns from the windows (the albino peacock completely out of sight, now), and limps out of the room.

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These assaults become daily, and with each passing instance, Alice struggles less and less.

She and Eloise take shorter walks around the grounds, walking arm to arm, their heads down, Alice grasping Fynn tightly to her chest, feeling constantly watched.

The little boy comes to call her 'mama,' which makes her want to sob and scream. She has to work harder than ever before to make the child feel as though there is nothing wrong with her—traumatizing him with her grief and distress would cause her the greatest shame imaginable. She wants, above all else, for him to be happy.

Ruthless November winds tear leaves from their branches in torrents, only the deep blue evergreen segment of the woods retaining its hue, a greyness taking over the sky. The leaves curl and sail across the surface of the small pond, until that, too, freezes, trapping the leaves under a layer of ice to decay, without hope of escape.

Corbin tells Alice to make a place in her subconscious, a place she can retreat to, to escape when she's lying powerless on the floor, bent painfully over Lucius's desk, or suffocating against a mattress. The young man makes the survival tactic sounds so easy, but Alice can't figure out how to do it for the world. All her focus is trained on not causing her evil assaulter to implode with her power—which she knows in her very blood, in those moments when her pain, anger and bewilderment fill every part of her otherwise hollow interior, is well within her capabilities.

But even so, as November yields, in turn, to December, Alice becomes less and less sure of herself. Her magic seems to drain right out of her, and even the simplest spells are infinitely difficult to perform. Everything about her is numb, except, unfortunately, for her body: the feeling of him inside of her, cutting, harsh, aching, is what can't be escaped.

A week before the Hogwarts Winter Holidays begin, Lucius Malfoy receives a letter from his son Draco, and remains for two whole days behind the door of his study, allowing nobody inside. Alice waits nervously in her own chambers, expecting at any moment for him to request her presence. But no such request comes for almost the entire week. And when a request for her presence does arrive, it is not for the purpose she has become accustomed to.

"I have decided," says Lucius when she enters his study, "to have Draco remain at school for the holidays. I have reason to believe that Sirius Black may target the train on its way back to Kings Cross. You will take Fynn with you to accompany Draco until his studies resume. You will also serve as an ambassador to my concern for his safety."

Alice lingers, standing up with her hands in front of her and her head bowed toward the floor, expecting for him to approach her violently at any second. But no such action is carried out, and instead she is merely excused from the room, and told to prepare both herself and Fynn for their journey and two week stay at Hogwarts.

The next morning, Eloise sees Alice and Fynn to Kings Cross station, and to platform nine-and-three-quarters, waving them goodbye from the platform as the otherwise-empty train whistles and pulls out into the dull white December light of the London morning.

As she watches the grey, flat landscape of England pass by outside the windows of their compartment, Alice finds herself crying suddenly, large, soundless tears of equal parts distress and relief dripping onto her lap, some rolling onto her cheeks. Fynn looks up at her with his innocent blue eyes, and touches each wet bead of sadness with his little fingertips, brushing them away until they are all gone.

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Spells used in this chapter:

1\. "Piertotum Locomotor," which makes previously inanimate objects move  
2\. "Alohomora," the unlocking charm  
3\. Imperturbable Charm (incantation unknown), to cause a muffling sound barrier over Alice's door

Yeah. I really wasn't joking about the mature rating. I'm sure most of you have read worse, but I can never know, so I felt that the warning was necessary.

I feel like this chapter went a little too fast. I was trying to hurry through this really depressing part of the story wouldn't feel too slow to you all, and I definitely didn't want to stretch Alice's misery into two chapters, but I think I may have overcorrected. Let me know what you think-I am very open to constructive criticism!

Just today I realized, for the first time, that Domhnall Gleeson (who I listed as a potential Remus) is already cast in the Harry Potter films as Bill Weasley. That flew right over my head. Oops. I'm still keeping him in the cast as Remus, though. The canon police are just going to have to cope.

Sorry again for the late update—I had an interview yesterday, and also, the fire department showed up at my house because of a faulty alarm system which was quite stressful... Not to mention that the content of this chapter in and of itself was difficult to write. I have another interview this evening, and am quite swamped with work tomorrow, so the next update might be a bit delayed, as well. But I will be back within another day or two.

Don't be shy if you're worried about leaving a review in a different language—I can do my best to translate using Google, and I have an inkling that this site might do it automatically. I wish I heard more from you!

Thank you for not plagiarizing my writing!

On_Errand_Bad

9,938 words

Sunday, 18 October 2020


	7. VII | Wolves

Note:

HeroPT, Lorgar50 and snapping tiger, thank you for following the story! Lorgar50, thank you, also, for the favorite! Thanks to Tigersflame for adding me to your community, A Tiger's Flames! And thank you as always, une-papillon-de-nuit, for reviewing!

And thank everyone for your remarkable consistency and support! I cannot believe that after just one week of writing I already have over 150 readers! It's impossible to put to words how happy you all make me! Seriously, every single one of you is so amazing. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

Sorry again about the irregular update time—I was outlining this chapter and realized that I needed to watch The Prisoner of Azkaban again in order to really get a sense of what was going on for those already at Hogwarts. So that accounts for two or so hours of the delay!

In this chapter, I've bought into the theory that Remus can perform Legilimency. It's not that heated of a debate as far as I know, so I think I'm safe with this choice... besides, he doesn't use it for a bad reason.

There are some scenes pulled directly from the films in this chapter, and so some characters may say lines that are close (if not identical) to what is said in the films. I didn't re-watch any scenes for reference, but I'm confident that I got most of the dialogue right.

Please review! I would love to know what you think about the story!

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling the Utmost Venerable.

Chapter Seven Totally Optional Cast (in order of appearance)

Anya Taylor-Joy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Alice  
Jack Gleeson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Fynn Malfoy  
Alan Rickman . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Severus Snape  
Tom Felton . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Draco Malfoy  
Daniel Radcliffe . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Harry Potter  
Rupert Grint . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Ronald Weasley  
Emma Watson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Hermione Granger  
David Thewlis / Domhnall Gleeson . . . . . . Remus Lupin  
Sir Michael Gambon . . . . . . . . . . . . Albus Dumbledore  
Maggie Smith . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Minerva McGonagall

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VII | Wolves

Winter Holidays, 1993-1994  
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Over the course of the train ride, Alice comes down with a cold: her body is exhausted, but sensing safety not too far away, her immune system lets down its defenses. By the time the Hogwarts Express blows its whistle and pulls into the station at Hogsmeade, she feels dizzy and on the cusp of a coughing fit. She waits until the train has come to an absolute stop before gathering Fynn up from the padded compartment bench, and carrying him on her hip up the train to the nearest door.

The platform is freezing from the season, and the thick white steam from the train billows around her like clouds as she steps down from the train, shivering instantly from the cold and tightening her grip around Fynn's small body. For a moment her mind is as occluded as her vision, but then she walks forward carefully, with one hand stretched out in front of her, the other wrapped securely around the boy—step by step, until the freezing steam thins, and she can see clearly.

And just in time, too, for standing one step in front of her is a tall, grave man in pitch black robes—whom she would have walked into if a breeze had blown the steam just slightly forward. But today is a windless day, so she stops just short of his chest, and looks up at him: hair as black as his robes, a thin pale face, his dark, sad gaze trained towards her down his long nose.

"Alice, I presume," Severus Snape says, his bass voice gloomily smooth. "I am here to receive you at the behest of Mr. Malfoy." He looks down at her and a somehow sad smirk twists the corner of his mouth painfully. "Follow me," he says, his eyes flickering to the little boy in Alice's arms, before turning on his heel with a swish of his black cloak, and striding down the platform.

At the end, they stand waiting, partially hidden by a black, weather-wettened tree trunk, as a series of black horseless carriages arrive at the station: robed students in droves, lugging trunks behind them, getting out and heading to the platform, on their way home for the winter holidays. Once the space has been cleared, avoiding attention, the man in all black starts for the nearest carriage, stepping up into it and beckoning for Alice to come, with a melancholy glare.

"What pulls them?" she asks, still standing in the snow, packed down by the shoes of the departing students, and looking curiously at the empty space in front of the carriage.

"Camouflage pixies," answers the dark-clothed man with a sarcastic sneer. "Get in."

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The entry hall of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry is warm compared with the frigid, snowy outdoors, and a red flush comes into Alice's cheeks suddenly upon stepping inside, her nose starting to run. The black-robed wizard turns to her, his austere nature emanating from his every movement as he looks between the face of the girl and Fynn Malfoy.

"I will be close by," Snape warns, his voice low and quiet, forcing her to listen, "keeping an eye on you. It would be folly, on your part, to forget it." And then, with a rippling of his black cape, he turns and hurries down an adjacent corridor. Alice feels an unpleasant chill dig itself into the place between her shoulder blades at the mysterious wizard's words, but, along with it, comes a forgiving dose of relief.

She looks up at the stone soldiers lining the walls of the entryway, candles floating high above her head, and is comforted by the familiarity of the castle she has entered upon, a safe refuge. Fynn, himself, has never before been in Hogwarts, and looks up with his eyes sparkling in wonder. "Wait until you see the great hall," says Alice to him quietly, her voice stuffy from the insistent running of her nose.

As though having entered upon a holy temple, she keeps her footsteps as soft as possible as she approaches the great hall, knowing that Harry and his friends are bound to be within. When she reaches the entryway, however, she hesitates at the sight of a tall, thin boy with profoundly white hair and sore-looking blue eyes on his way out. He, too, notices her, and stops at the sight of the child in her arms.

Fynn, himself, starts to squirm a bit against Alice's chest at the sight of his older brother, and, quickly putting the pieces together, Alice lets the boy down onto the floor—at which point he hurries to his surprised-looking sibling, hugging him around the leg, as he comes only up to his waist.

Draco almost smiles at the sight of his little brother, placing his hand on the back of the younger boy's curly blonde head, but then quickly represses the instinct, looking back up at the girl—two years his senior—standing across the space.

"So, then," he says to her, his posture and cold tone a pale imitation of his father's. "You're the help, are you?"

Alice doesn't let his words get to her—and they would be hard pressed to do so, anyways, after coping with months of his father's far superior verbal and physical assaults. She knows that she will have to earn the boy's trust, that she must do so as soon as possible, and is immediately sure of how to do it, too.

Protecting his fragile pride, she looks around quickly, ensuring that they are alone and out of earshot before walking up to him. She maintains a proper distance, but looks directly into his eyes, attempting to channel all the support under the sun through her gaze as she speaks quietly but firmly. "It is my hope that we will become partners in arms," she begins, "but in order for that to happen, it will be necessary for both of us to show each other a certain amount of respect."

She can tell immediately that Draco knows what she's talking about—she can see something register behind his eyes. And without saying anything in direct response to her words, he nods his head up and down slightly, in discreet agreement. Then, he removes Fynn's arms from around his leg, saying, "Go along, Fynn," and then, to Alice, more quietly, "Find me soon," before hurrying up the stairs and out of sight, as though frightened by the intimacy of the interaction.

But a weight has been lifted from Alice's chest after finally meeting Fynn's older brother, and she is pleasantly surprised by the ease with which she'd found common ground with him. Fynn looks after Draco for a time, before turning back around, and looking forward into the great hall, his eyes shining with amazement. A small, long-lost smile appears on Alice's lips, and she takes the child's hand, leading him forward into the warm, cavernous space.

The four long tables are still dominated by the colorful breakfast feast which had been laid out that morning, and some of the students remaining for the Holidays are still working away at platefuls of food, scavenging through the leftovers. Alice spots Ron Weasley before the others: creeping around the Hufflepuff table and waiting until none of them are looking his way before taking an entire angel food cake under his arm and sneaking it back over to the Gryffindor table.

"Ronald!" Alice hears Hermione say in exasperation, and her smile grows wider.

Harry is the first to notice her, glancing up from a piece of pumpkin pie and grinning in pleasant surprise, beckoning her over to the table. All three are delighted to see her, and curious about the identity of the little boy accompanying her, but something in her eyes must deter them from asking questions. Ron quickly takes it upon himself to pile a plate of food high for her, and Fynn eagerly grabs a cinnamon bun, eager to devour something sweet after the long, boring train ride.

On seeing Harry for the first time in so long, Alice is suddenly struck by a terrible feeling of guilt: she'd neglected to write him as much as she should have throughout the summer. "How was your summer, Harry?" she says casually, so as not to let the others in on the fact that she hadn't been on Privet Drive, but lacing her voice with meaning intended just for Harry.

"It went alright," he says, communicating to her with his eyes that, though he'd felt slightly abandoned, he'd understood. And Alice feels a bit comforted, sure that, probably, he had survived on letters from Ron and Hermione throughout the boring months of summer vacation.

"Tell her about Marge, Harry!" prompts Ron through a mouthful of half-chicken wing, half-biscuit.

"Ronald, don't talk until you've swallowed your food," growls Hermione hopelessly, earning a combative expression from Ron.

Harry commences to tell the story of how his miserable aunt had come at the end of the summer, and how he'd accidentally blown her up—which Alice initially takes to mean 'exploded.' But he quickly explains himself, and by the end of the story, she can't help but giggle a little at the absurdity of it all—though still understanding Harry's struggle to control his powers on a deeper level.

The three of them then catch her up on the events of the first term: the hilarious but worrisome premonitions of the Divination teacher Trelawney, Hagrid's trials regarding Buckbeak, Boggarts with Professor Lupin, Hogsmeade, and Sirius Black.

But, eventually, the inevitably question comes, from Ron, about where Alice had been over the school year, and why she wasn't attending Hogwarts, like everyone else their age. Alice, knowing that it would be better in the long run to tell them the truth, hesitates for only a moment before saying that she'd been at the Malfoy Manor, acting as caretaker to Fynn, who withers slightly under the three pairs of startled, judgmental eyes.

"Blimey," says Ron. "I didn't know Malfoy had a kid brother."

Alice feels an urge to correct Ron, to say that his name is Draco, not Malfoy, but she bites her tongue, knowing now to be the wrong time. It's abundantly clear to her from Harry, Ron and Hermione's faces that Draco has served as an adequate extension of his father's mannerisms, and it seems that their dislike towards Draco is not something they can be reasoned out of, at least not now.

"You look awfully tired from the train," says Hermione, effectively protecting Alice from the barrage of accusations or further questions that were bound to follow the revelation of where she'd been all year. "Why don't you go up to Gryffindor tower and get a bath? We aren't going anywhere, and nobody will rush you."

"I think I will," says Alice, casting the other witch a grateful glance.

Fynn yawns widely, his eyelids starting to droop, so she picks him up and, bidding the other three goodbye, starts out of the great hall towards the stairs. Just before she reaches the corridor, she overhears Ron, behind her, remarking: "Why's she working for the bloody Malfoys?" and she realizes with a pang of disappointment, that it may be harder than she'd thought to maintain strong relationships with Harry, Ron and Hermione, while still trying to kindle a new camaraderie with Draco.

But all her worries slip away at the very moment she lowers her bruised body into the warm, soapy bathtub. Fynn sits outside the bathroom door, and they sing his favorite nursery rhyme to each other while she washes herself, feeling cleaner than she has in a very long time.

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Later that afternoon, Alice, yearning to spend some time away from the others before reincorporating herself into social habits, takes Fynn on an exploration of the castle. Most of the floors and stairways she knows like the back of her hand, after spending so many months there without any other students, and there's a certain peace that comes with rediscovering the old routes through the cool, mostly empty corridors, now. Fynn looks around in wonder, but is still remarkably drained from the train ride, and so she carries him, her arms never too weak to keep him up—her saving grace throughout any trial.

It is by accident that she happens upon the stairway to Dumbledore's office—whose location always seems to shift from one place to another, depending on the whim of the magical spirit of Hogwarts Castle on any given day. She recognizes the griffin sculpture, its wings open as though for an embrace, and smiles at the memory of finally meeting Dumbledore for the first time, after only having ever seen him from far away.

Suddenly, though, the stone staircase starts to shift into motion, as though someone had just uttered the password—though she hadn't even tried to do it on purpose. Fynn gasps in excitement, and Alice, having an inkling that Dumbledore might have sensed her presence, and caused the stairway to move, himself, as a signal for her to join him, hurries forward, stepping onto one of the stairs and letting the spiral carry her upwards.

Immediately upon her arrival in the doorway, Fynn quiet against her side, she spots Dumbledore and Remus, both standing near the wintery window, which they seem to have been just looking out. The warm, eccentric nature of the office is almost foreign after so many months of the Malfoy Manor's strict, dark and austere interior.

"Alice," says Albus in greeting, "how wonderful of you to join us." And he grants her a secret wink, confirming her previous suspicions that the staircase had moved on purpose.

Remus puts his hands in his pockets and looks over at Alice happily. Dumbledore has watched him become quite gaunt over the course of the first term, but suddenly, at the sight of the girl, Lupin brightens, becoming almost immediately healthier, the color returning to his cheeks, and a glimmer of happiness appearing in his tired heart. Alice, seeing the wizard for the first time after learning of his other secret nature, suddenly understands the implications of the scars on his cheek, the quiet way he has, the reason why he always seems to keep a certain distance. She smiles right back at him, not frightened in the slightest.

"Ah," says Dumbledore with a friendly lilt in his voice, turning his warm gaze on the young Fynn. "This must be the newest addition to the Malfoy family." And the headmaster smiles gently beneath his beard, his eyes shining behind his spectacles as he makes a little square of chocolate float from the bowl of candies on his desk over to the boy, who catches it in his palm and laughs with glee, immediately taken in by the old wizard. Alice lets out a gleaming smile of her own at the memory of how Dumbledore had first enchanted her in the same way, on that night on Privet Drive.

"Professor Lupin and I were just looking out the window and thinking how pleasant a winter walk around the grounds would be, today. I fear my bones are too old for the temperature, but I will be so bold as to suggest that you," he directs his warm gaze upon Alice "might accompany him. It would be my great pleasure to entertain the youngest Mr. Malfoy until your return."

Fynn beams, his cheek puffed out from the chocolate inside his mouth, his eyes bright at the prospect of time on his own with this captivating old wizard. Alice is slightly nervous about leaving the boy, as it will be the first time she's been separated from him since meeting him months before. But she trust Dumbledore, and something inside of her is burning to walk alone with Remus, to experience that quiet companionship that his presence never fails to provide, so she agrees to the headmaster's suggestion.

Just minutes later, clad in many layers with the added protection of a warming charm, Alice and Remus step out into the frosty air of the courtyard, and start across the front of the castle towards the cleared walking path around Long Lake.

Suddenly, she feels strange about the presence of his body beside hers. He is tall and, though thin, stronger than she, and while there is something about him that is a pillar of safety, there is also a certain masculine danger that she detects for the first time, now—almost on instinct. And she is wary whenever a wavering step in the snow brings her stumbling too close to him.

Remus senses immediately that something is awry, that something had gone wrong over her time at the Manor. "Have you been treated well, these past months?" is the way he poses his question, at last, after minutes of silence, perpetuated by the cold stillness of the air.

After a moment, she turns from him, coming to a standstill on the path, her body hunching over instinctively. Tears brim at the corners of her eyes, stinging as the moisture meets the cold—and she fights to keep them from falling, but is afraid that if they stay in her eyes too long, they'll freeze.

Remus looks down wat her in the deepest concern, but not quite shock, having sensed something direly wrong, before. He tries to touch her shoulder, but she flinches away at his touch, prompting him to kneel down on the stone pathway to make himself less intimidating as he looks up at her, convincing her to tell him what the trouble is.

"I want to tell you," she says in a trembling whisper, her voice made higher and more quiet by the cold. "But I can't put it into words."

The wizard looks down at the path briefly, deliberating the moral implications of a possible solution. After coming to an answer within himself, he looks back up at her, saying, "I have a proposition for you, in that case. It's entirely optional: I could look inside of your mind, and see it for myself. It would cause a minor headache, but, afterward, I'll have a square of chocolate for you. Or an entire bar, if you'd like."

The girl almost steps back, started at his offer, and slightly frightened by the idea of having him probing around in her mind—especially for information of such sensitivity. But, with a sob, she realizes that there is no other way at present to tell him what is eating her up inside, and so she nods her head up and down, consenting to the plan.

"Open your mind to me," he constructs gently.

Slowly, Alice manages to do so, more tears flooding her eyes as the memories of the past months gain further color, and painful clarity, moving into the forefront of her mind.

"Legilimens," Lupin mutters.

Soon after, she feels a presence inside of her skull; something physical, and not her own, but not threatening, either. A slight pulse, slowly making room for itself in her mind, and moving about gently from side to side, as it seeks out its desired information.

And all too soon, he finds it. Remus sees and feels it all: every time she was thrown to the floor, every time her bones seemed about to shatter from the force of her body jolting against the edge of a desk, the way her lungs froze completely after a minute of being suffocated against a bed...

After just a few seconds, he can't bear it anymore, and recedes from the girl's head, trembling, his hands seeking support from the freezing stone pathway. Alice, herself, feels her heart cave in around itself, a headache promptly blooming out inside of her skull, a wave of shame and devastation taking over her as she realizes what Remus had just seen. Will he think that she'd been weak? Will he be embarrassed and never look at her again? Will he detest her for not telling him what had been going on, sooner?

Unable to balance all the sudden emotions, Alice starts to sob, the tears offending her at first—but then, Remus gathers himself up from the ground, and something in his eyes and his stance gives her permission to release the emotion by any means necessary. Magically, he extends a layer of warmth to her body, to serve as a surrogate for his arms, as he's afraid—after seeing what she'd experienced—to lay hands on her, even in a comforting gesture.

But, contrary to his expectations, Alice instead walks forward, arms wrapped around herself, placing her body against his, nestling her head into his chest as she shakes violently with her deep cries. Remus hesitates for a second, caught off guard by the sudden feeling of her on the other side of his coat, but then embraces her. Alice cries harder, but something inside of her loosens—his arms are safe around her.

Remus, his stare reaching a thousand miles away as he looks over her small, trembling shoulder, is suddenly brought back to the present by the sudden appearance of color close by. At the edge of the path, some of the snow has suddenly been banished by the strength of Alice's emotion, and from the exposed ground, a patch of Lily of the Valley suddenly grows. After a few moments, he shifts himself slightly away from her, leaning down to pluck them from the ground, collecting them in a small bouquet in his hand, holding it up for her tearful inspection.

Back in his office—dust covering an old gramophone, winter light slanting through the windows bordering one wall, a strange, scarred cabinet standing in the center-they unearth themselves from their layers of coats, and remove the warming spells to keep from burning up. Remus walks down the aisle between desks and then ascends a small stairway into his personal office beyond where, on his desk, sits a vase of autumnal flowers.

He'd collected them months before on one of his frequent off-day walks on the highlands and along the lake path. But he'd loved them so much, that he'd simply had to preserve them. But now, he removes them from the vase, considering them briefly before vanishing, and replacing them with Alice's new white flowers, filling the vase with fresh water and casting a preservation charm over them.

After admiring them momentarily, allowing his mind to float away from the troubles at hand if only for a second, Remus turns and leans back against his desk, not knowing what else to do, as the girl watches him discreetly from the doorway. She looks at the flowers, and nods at them, incapable of looking him straight in the eyes.

He is seized by a sudden fear that she might regret revealing her mind to him, but, shuffling around the real cause of the silence, he swallows and says, "I'm sorry to ask this of you, but you really mustn't tell Harry what I told you about Sirius Black."

But the girl isn't interested in listening to extraneousness. She walks forward meekly, the wet bottoms of her shoes making slight sounds against the floor as she comes to stand next to him, looking up into his face, but not at his eyes, her gaze tracing the scars along his cheek. And then, quite suddenly, she strains upward, standing on the tops of her toes, and kisses him.

For a second he freezes: her lips are paralyzed against his, and he has to keep himself from trembling, or tracing her jaw with his fingers, as his instincts tell him to do at the feeling of a kiss: unfamiliar and resurgent, after so many years. Instead, he quickly obtains control from some steadfast part of himself, and draws backward slightly, though not violently, as to avoid offending the confused girl.

Her heels sink slowly back to the floor—now, she looks directly into his eyes, hers filled with a chaos of pain and confusion at her own actions.

"You don't have to do that for me to protect you," Remus says after a moment, still quite befuddled.

But Alice shakes her head, putting the back of her hand to her mouth, shocked at what she'd just done, and, stumbling, she turns and flees.

"Alice!" he calls after her apologetically, hurrying to the doorway of his office. But she has already disappeared.

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After recovering from this encounter, Remus goes directly to Dumbledore's office, on the cusp of a fit of anger. Albus senses his near-rage before he even enters by the way of the stone staircase, but when he does enter upon the office, his hair disheveled by the violence of his apparation, his eyes glaring towards the headmaster, Dumbledore is taken aback.

"I'm not going to tell it to you," Remus says with a quiet hatred, his stillness menacing. "You're going to have to suffer through seeing it for yourself."

Dumbledore nods, keeping his well-practiced composure and raising a hand calmly as he begins to skim across the surface of the newest Professor's mind. It takes a moment for the borrowed memories to surface, but when they do, Albus quickly withdraws, more horrified than he has been in recent memory, and winded, stumbles down into his chair.

Remus watches, some hateful, angry part of him glad to see the headmaster's horror written so clearly on his face. But just a moment later, the gratification fades: Albus's hand has begun to tremble, and his eyes stare with a far-off shame behind his dull spectacles.

Inside of Dumbledore's own mind, a terrible admission is being made: he's made a grave mistake, one of the gravest of his lifetime, and soon, he becomes quite upset at himself for underestimating Lucius—or, rather, for overestimating him. He truly had thought that the wizard might have changed, and had never known him to be capable of something of this caliber of wickedness in the first place.

Remus Lupin's posture slumps and his eyes widen as the headmaster's great magic causes the pages of a few open books around his office to turn and flap rapidly, as though caught in a violent wind. Dumbledore turns to the younger wizard at length, both their faces deeply troubled, and Albus thinks, for a moment, that he detects a faint spark of something deeper beneath the ire in Lupin's eyes... perhaps an underlying emotion for the girl...

"You see, now, don't you?" says Remus after a few stretched moments, wanting to fill his voice with hatred for the headmaster's decision—but there's something in Dumbledore's face that keeps him from doing so.

Albus gets up very slowly from his chair, his body suddenly feeling much older than it had just seconds before. He looks out the window, steadying himself with a hand on the cold, ancient frame. Suddenly, the white world outside seems menacing and trapping—a cage from which he doesn't know whether he can escape. For a long time, he stares out at the white blanketing the hills, and the frozen grey surface of the lake, searching for an answer in the land—but it offers none. Now, he has been left alone with his own morals, which threaten to fall and twist, as it is.

"You understand that it would be impossible to rescue her immediately," he says to Remus at great length, choosing his words carefully. "She must return with the child at the end of the holidays, or the consequences upon all of us would be very dire. What we are capable of, is tying together a network to get her out by the early spring."

"Why does everything have to take time!" Remus shouts, a number of precious artefacts around the office ringing and shuddering slightly at the sound of undiluted anger and consternation. "Why won't you immediately ensure her protection, when you are capable of doing so! Send the child back to London alone, if you must—he is no longer of our concern!"

Dumbledore tries to look at the younger wizard calmly, but a part of him coils in self-loathing at the truth in his impassioned words. The headmaster knows that Remus is at his strongest peak on the month calendar, knows that he would be even more emotional if the day was closer to the full moon, but that, even so, it will be nearly impossible to reason with him, now.

"I will equip the girl with every possible defense-" he starts, trying to justify his decision to himself, just as much as he is trying to justify it to Remus.

But Remus refuses to hear it. He knows that there is no way he can really change the headmaster's mind at this point, unless he were to retreat and compile an argument. But all of this he knows only in the back of his mind—the forefront is crowded with unbridled hatred. His hands clench and unclench quickly, and in a moment of reason, to keep from exploding, Remus turns and storms out of the office. He nearly falls on the stairs as they surge into motion, more distraught than he can remember being since learning of Peter Pettigrew's betrayal of Sirius Black, and holds his breath to keep the tears in his eyes from falling.

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Alice attempts to regain a sense of normalcy after her embarrassing actions in Remus's office, though she is constantly aware of how quickly time is getting away from her. It is easy to avoid Lupin, who seems to be trying to avoid her just as much as she is trying to avoid him, out of his own shame, perhaps. But much harder to avoid is the knowledge that she will inevitably have to go back to the manor.

She tries every day to kindle a relationship with Draco. At the start, after walking around the grounds a number of times, she approaches him at the Slytherin table when the rest of the great hall is nearly empty, and asks him quietly if his father ever hurt him.

Immediately, his eyes become defensive and he reverts to his superior posture as though to protect himself from the insinuations behind her question. "My father wouldn't lay a finger on me," he argues coldly. Alice looks down at the surface of the table, wishing she'd said something different, thinking it might be best for her to just stand up and leave the hall.

But something in the older girl's eyes makes Draco shrink slightly, and before he knows it, he's saying, quietly, his voice barely retaining its habitual bitterness: "Of course he doesn't touch me. He doesn't even look at me."

Likewise, the next time they are together, she tries to pose a gentle question about his mother, but he becomes quickly defensive yet again, telling her sharply not to mention his mother before turning and hurrying away towards some secret hiding place she knows not of.

She feels as though she should win an award for stupidity after asking personal questions so soon, and knows it is completely her fault that they got off on the wrong foot. But, soon, it is actually Draco who comes to approach her of his own volition. Despite his defenses, the boy has come to trust her, and after another few days of warming the ice, they start to take morning walks around the grounds along with Fynn, on which Draco confesses to Alice how much he misses his mother, and misses the man his father had been before her death.

Alice listens to his every words, and responds when appropriate—but most of the time she comes to feel a great and terrible conflict in her heart, as the boy talks about who his father had once been. It seems impossible that he could have changed so much, and there is something unforgivable tied up with Lucius in her eyes that makes it difficult to look at Draco without feeling some measure of pity...

But, luckily, she does find a respite from these conflicting emotions, in her friendships with Harry, Ron, and Hermione, which are certainly warmer than her emerging relationship with Draco—though she only engages with them if she is confident she has left Draco and Fynn together on a positive note.

A conflict has arisen for Harry Potter surrounding his inability to accompany Ron and Hermione to Hogsmeade, lacking a guardian-signed permission form. Alice finds the situation entirely unfair, and so keeps Harry company while he's stuck in the school, both of them watching the melancholy snow fall past the windows while Fynn chases a magically animated toy Pegasus up and down the hallway.

"You're good," Harry says on one particular afternoon, referring to her magical ability. "How did you learn, in the first place, anyway?"

"Professor Lupin," she says, sticking to the simplest answer and turning her face away so that Harry won't be privy to the embarrassment she feels at the mention of Remus.

"Really?" exclaims Harry, not having noticed anything.

"During last year, he stayed at Ms. Figg's house with us, and helped me to find... control."

"Cool," Harry says absentmindedly, looking longingly out the window, the footsteps of the other students slowly filling up with snow in the courtyard.

Suddenly, something occurs to her. "Harry," she exclaims, feeling daft for not thinking of this further. "Your Invisibility Cloak."

The younger boy turns to her with a broad grin breaking across his face, and he stands up with a start from the windowsill in which they'd been sitting. "Alice, you're brilliant! I'll come right back!" He excitedly hugs her and then runs down the corridor towards the Gryffindor dormitories, Alice incapable of holding back a smile of her own.

Just minutes later, she watches from the clock tower while Harry's footprints appear one after the other on the fresh carpet of snow in the courtyard below. But her excitement quickly turns to dismay as the two older Weasley twins appear in his path, and quickly realize what is happening, taking him by the (invisible) arms and leading him back towards the castle, their plan foiled.

Alice huffs in disappointment, hoping that, given the twins' playful nature, she might be able to convince them not to interfere with Harry's wishes, as she gathers up Fynn in her arms and hurries down the stairs to confront them.

But instead of trying to keep Harry behind, it turns out that Fred and George had only stopped him to give him something that might help him along in his endeavor. It's the Marauders' Map, and they'd found it in Filch's office during a detention in their first year. Alice looks on in excitement and curiosity as they show Harry how to use it, and then send him off towards a secret tunnel that leads directly into the basement of a Hogsmeade shop from the castle.

Alice waves Harry off with a smile, but something inside of her regretting that she will remain stuck at Hogwarts alone, now. But Harry turns around suddenly after a moment, seeming to have read her thoughts, and offers to let her come with him under the cloak. Fred and George promptly offer themselves up as temporary caretakers to Fynn and, trusting them and excited to explore as much of Harry's world as possible, Alice leaves the youngest Malfoy behind (the boy already happy to be with the two red-haired jokesters) and sneaks out of the castle with her friend.

Their excursion into Hogsmeade turns out to be... eventful, to say the least.

They find Ron and Hermione looking over a fence in the direction of a narrow, broken down shack, and Harry is about to approach them and make him aware of his presence in some amusing way, when Draco and his two accomplices appear from behind the nearby trees. Alice looks on in a sad disappointment as she and Harry stand back, watching the three of them taunt and intimidate Ron and Hermione with threats and cruel jokes at their expense. Soon, Harry begins to throw snowballs at the three accusers, until they run back through the snowy woods in the direction of the castle. Harry reveals their presence by tugging on the tassels of Ron's hat, and fiddling with Hermione's scarf, before pulling the invisibility cloak off. Alice is happy to see Ron and Hermione, but she has to work to hide her sudden disappointment in the way Draco had taken out his sadness and anger.

It becomes easier to suppress her emotion, though, as the four of them walk back through Hogsmeade, the cloak covering herself and Harry once again. They walk through the streets, Harry maneuvering expertly when a group of unaware students almost bumps into them, the two of them sharing a box of Bertie Bott's Every-Flavor Beans under the cloak. But the fun is quickly spoiled when a carriage bearing Professor McGonagall, the minister of magic, and Hagrid appears in the street outside of a nearby pub, and Harry, Ron, Hermione and Alice all stop in the center of the street, listening in to a conversation in progress between McGonagall, the minister and the bartender, who has come out of the pub to receive them.

"...thing that might bring Sirius Black, here, into Hogsmeade," the professor is saying.

"What would that be, Minerva?" questions the Minister.

"Harry Potter, of course."

Alice has no choice but to stumble alongside Harry as he hurries into the pub, leaving Ron and Hermione in the street, going after McGonagall and the other two for all he's worth, slipping through the door just a split second before it slams closed against the winter day.

They go as silently as possible up the stairs, following the adults into a secret room, again slipping through the door just in time. Alice and Harry linger silently in the corner, nearly being found out by the minister, who seems to sense an odd presence in front of him, before turning away and joining Minerva by the fireplace. Both of them, concealed by the cloak, listen with rapt attention, their faces slowly falling as the conversation begins to unfold.

Alice feels her heart break quietly at the look on Harry's face when he discovers through their words that Sirius Black had been his parents' friend, and had betrayed them to the Dark Lord at the end of the first war. A pang of guilt shudders through her chest as she realizes she might have told him earlier, but had felt a sense of loyalty towards Remus's request that she not disclose anything to Harry.

But then, just as soon her own emotions are overshadowed yet again by a glaring shock upon hearing what McGonagall says next: "Sirius Black has always been, and remains to this day, Harry Potter's godfather..."

Before she knows it, she is stumbling alongside Harry beneath the cloak, out of the shop and into the woods again, desperate to make sense of what had just been said, herself. Harry sobs for a long time, insistent upon her silence though he says nothing to her. It's as though she isn't there, and for a few minutes, Alice questions whether she exists at all, her entire body hollowed out and then poured full of distress and sadness.

Hermione and Ron find the two of them there, Hermione gently pulling away the cloak of invisibility. But Harry is no better for their presence, and, his tears quickly abating and shifting into a glare of pure vengeance, his body trembling as he breathes in and out, he vows that he will be ready when Sirius Black finds him—that he will be ready to kill him.

When the two of them reenter Hogwarts through the secret passageway, Alice is too exhausted to fight Harry as he takes off with the invisibility cloak, leaving her in the entryway of the tunnel and hurrying off, probably to scream into his pillow, in the direction of the boys' dormitory. She stands there for a few moments, seeping in her guilt and wondering what she should do next, before deciding to go out in search of Fred and George.

But she finds Fynn with Draco, instead, the younger boy playing with a white bird that Draco had seemingly conjured for his brother's delight. Upon noticing Alice, though, Draco quickly whips his wand in the direction of the magical animal, vanishing it with an agitated flick. He tries to be angrier than he really is when he says, "You left him with the bloody Weasleys?" disgust marring his face.

Alice looks at him for a moment before stepping forwards, ignoring the younger boy's sudden flinch at her closeness, and says simply, "Draco, you don't have to hate them. You don't have to hate anybody."

After a second of held breath, the floodgates break open, as though her words had been a key, some sort of long-awaited permission to be human, and Draco slumps forward, embracing the older girl like a sister. Startled by his older brother's show of emotion, Fynn makes his way over to them, and hugs Draco's leg carefully, warmly. In midair, the little white bird reappears of its own accord, the cold corridor promptly filled with the sounds of its flapping wings, its high, hopeful song.

********************************************************************************************************

The next evening, Harry and Alice find themselves alone in the great hall, Ron and Hermione off somewhere together, the two of them having stayed after the evening meal to catch their breath. Alice is plagued by a need to tell him what she knows about Sirius Black, but knows that to do so—especially at this sensitive time—would only backfire. So, she remains silent. And eventually it is Harry who speaks first.

"There's something I've got to tell somebody, but you have to promise not to tell Ron and Hermione," he says. "I don't want them to have another reason to think I'm... different... from them."

"I promise," Alice says, nodding her head—and sincerely, too, now understanding on a new level the true commitment that a promise demands.

Harry leans closer to her, though the only others in the great hall are house elves. "Professor Lupin," he whispers. "He taught me a new sort of magic. It's called a Patronus, and... and it's for the Dementors."

Alice listens with rapt attention as her friend goes on to recount the day of learning the new spell, and by the time Harry excuses himself to go find Hermione and Ron for something, Alice has decided that this would be the best possible way to regain Remus's trust.

It's clear to the girl that he has been upset with her, for it's been more than a week and still he hasn't even happened upon her once in the corridors or the courtyard. Sure, she'd been trying to avoid him, too, but she cats a sensation that the avoidance hadn't been limited only to her own evasive tactics.

Fynn safe with Draco elsewhere in the castle, Alice slowly ascends the changing staircases and wanders the corridors until she locates Professor Lupin's classroom. She has to gather up all the bravery in her body—severely depleted after her extended stay at the Malfoy Manor—before she can bear to step across the threshold and into the room. But she convinces herself, in the end, that she must do so, and so, she does.

Remus is busy grading papers in his office as she goes silently down the aisle between the students' desks, and plants herself in the doorway. She goes unnoticed at first, as the wizard is extremely focused on deciphering one of his students' abysmal handwriting, and she has to say, "Will you teach me, too?" before he registers her presence, and looks up.

"Harry let slip about the Patronus charm, I take it?" he says at length, surprised to see her there of her own free will, after how embarrassed she must have been last time, and how terribly he'd managed to avoid her for so many days afterward.

"Teach me," she repeats, becoming more insistent with every moment she stands there.

He considers her for a moment before setting down his papers and standing up from his desk. "Alright," he says, "as long as you don't tell anyone. I'm technically not supposed to teach magic to non-students." He breathes in sharply, closing his eyes in disappointment at himself, realizing what he'd said. "I'm sorry..." he starts, but the girl quickly shakes her head, pardoning him.

"I taught Harry about it because of the immediate threat of the Dementors, but the magic is useful in many other situations, too. It may be conjured in dark times, to provide solace for whoever casts it. It can also, in rare cases, be used as a messenger between individuals. It may be corporeal or not—a corporeal Patronus takes the shape of a specific creature that coincides with a witch or wizard's innermost being. The spell is 'Expecto Patronum,' which means-"

"I expect a guardian," interjects Alice, easily piecing the Latin together with a small smile.

"Yes," says Remus, returning her expression, "and it can only work if you hold your happiest memory in your mind, as you deliver the incantation."

Alice nods her head, though something in her jolts unpleasantly at the task of selecting a memory—how will she ever be able to know which is the right one? And in the greyness of her past, how should she distinguish between normal memories, and happy ones? How can she know if a memory is happy, at all?

"Since it would be unreasonable," continues Remus, distracting her from her anxieties for the time being by leading her down into the classroom, where a mysteriously rattling cupboard stands, "to use a real Dementor, we will use a Boggart." Alice's face falls slightly, as she recollects the magical term from one of her textbooks: an object which takes the form of the greatest fear of whoever is in its presence. "Your Patronus will force it back into the cupboard."

Alice finds her fingers to shake slightly as she looks towards the cabinet, wondering what the boggart will take the shape of when the door is opened. Remus, sensing her fear, says, "Often, our true fears are not capable of being put into a physical form. So, the boggart will only imitate the physical thing, or person, that you are most scared of at this particular time in your life. It could be practically anything. Given that, at present..." he pauses, deliberating before deciding that the girl ought to be as prepared as possible, ahead of time. "...I think you might reasonably expect it to take the form of Lucius Malfoy."

Alice swallows, and feels some of the blood drain from her face, sensing that Remus is correct—but she nods her head despite her fear, and squares herself before the cabinet. "I'm ready," she says to him, forcing the words out before her rational mind can convince her otherwise.

"Prepare a happy memory," he instructs gently, taking the handle of the cabinet and readying himself to open it.

"I'm ready," the girl repeats, scrambling through the files of her mind, until she lands on the moment when she'd first seen true wand-magic: when Dumbledore had stood on Privet Drive blow and sent her up a lemon drop.

Nodding his head, Remus opens the cabinet, allowing the door to creak open as Alice raises her wand, preparing himself. Lucius Malfoy steps out of the cabinet and quickly Alice calls out the spell, but the memory of Dumbledore and the taste of the candy on her tongue becomes too quickly jumbled, the images turning grey and then black, falling out of order as she is overtaken by the menacing form of the wicked, white-haired wizard coming towards her, his serpent-head cane clicking against the floor with every other step. The girl considers trying to cast the spell again, but instead her recently-acquired instincts take over, and she cowers away as Lucius grows closer and closer...

Remus acts quickly, sending the boggart back into the cupboard, where it commences to rattle around angrily.

"Why did you do that?" Alice says, struggling to keep her voice from quaking as she draws herself back up to her full height, ashamed of how she'd reacted to the sight of Lucius Malfoy—and not even the real him.

"I think," says Remus sympathetically, "you need a different memory."

"Do it again," she says quickly. "I have it," upset at herself for reacting in such an immature way and determined, now, to succeed and get it all over with as fast as possible.

"Are you sure you have it?" he asks.

"Yes," she insists.

"So be it," Remus mutters as he opens the cupboard once again.

This time, no memory comes to her at all, and when she does try to fall back on that night with Dumbledore and the lemon drop, it is too late. Again, and again, she tries, each time her determination—but also her exhaustion—growing, as the boggart's deadly-accurate imitation of Lucius Malfoy's ice-cold eyes overtakes her again and again.

Until, finally, on the fourteenth try, a new memory comes to her suddenly, filling and warming her mind of its own accord: the evening in the garden behind Ms. Figg's house, when she'd made Remus's water glass shatter, and he'd mended it with his wand, smiling at her—a feeling of companionship and forgiveness that she'd never felt before he'd come along.

"Expecto Patronum!" Alice calls out, seizing the moment for all she's worth.

A beam of white light shoots out of her wand suddenly in response to the joy contained in the memory, and the strength of the incantation, and promptly it morphs into the shape of a wolf, charging directly at Lucius. The boggart collapses on itself and flies backward with astounding speed into the cupboard as Alice's Patronus dissipates. The cupboard itself falls over backward onto the classroom floor with a deafening sound, which suddenly gives way to a great silence, just moments later, the boggart no longer rattling around within.

Alice, winded and spent, stumbles backward, sitting down on the floor with her spinning head between her knees as she catches her breath. Remus, astounded by the force of the girl's Patronus, crosses towards the cabinet, and opens the door warily. But when he does so, he discovers that the cabinet is entirely empty—the boggart isn't inside, at all. She's completely destroyed it.

The wizard laughs happily, impressed and startled by her accomplishment, and he hurries over to the dizzy young witch, extending a hand for her to take, and helping her back to her feet as he congratulates her and leads her to a nearby chair.

"That was excellent!" he says happily, kneeling down in front of her and handing her an entire bar of chocolate from his pocket. "Eat some, it'll help your head."

She nods, an exhausted smile tugging at the corners of her mouth as she takes a delicious bite. But soon, something in Remus twists uncomfortably, as the past minute replays itself inside of his mind, and he realizes that her Patronus had been a wolf... the same as his own.

"What was your memory?" he asks after a moment, not revealing the full depth of his curiosity.

She flushes, and without really thinking, tells him the not-quite-truth, using the original memory which had failed, where Dumbledore had first showed her magic on Privet Drive. Remus nods, not picking up on her dishonesty, and tells himself that maybe, their Patronuses are only identical because they are similar individuals, trying to put the alternative out of his mind.

Despite her decision not to tell him the truth about the memory, though, Alice is still compelled to tell the wizard what she's found out about him—to tell him that she knows why, in just a few days time, he will seemingly disappear from the castle and grounds for the night of the full moon. But she keeps her tongue still, distracting herself with the taste of the chocolate, not wanting to risk ruining what fragile ground she seems to have regained from the success of this impromptu lesson.

Remus sends her off a few minutes later with a second bar of chocolate to serve as a parting reward. When Alice returns to the hallway, something inside of her soars, but something else is left empty: the price she assumes must be paid for such powerful magic. Remus remains behind in his office, quite troubled, thinking hard. Perhaps the girl's sudden actions the week before, when she'd kissed him so blatantly, may have been more than some strange, confused, hormonal instinct. But the wizard has to deny it, shaking his head to himself at the thought, hoping with all his might that this is not the case... for the sake of the girl's own safety, and for his own.

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Alice has taken to passing her nights in the Gryffindor common room before the fireplace, incapable of sleeping in the same dormitory as Hermione, too accustomed to being alone and too afraid that she might wake suddenly from an unpleasant nightmare and be forced to explain herself. Tonight, Fynn has joined her on the couch before the gentle orange flames, and he breathes in and out steadily against her neck.

It is nearly midnight when Alice's body shifts, and she stands up—but not consciously; at least, not quite. A sleepy disorientation clings to her moving body, and she sleepwalks across the room towards the entrance, leaving Fynn on the cushions alone, something inside of her telling her that she must get to someone, or something, before it is too late.

She has no light, so the paintings aren't disturbed by the sleepwalker in their midst as she meanders through the corridors.

But before too long, a light does appear, and soon afterward, Harry Potter, holding aloft the marauders' map without his invisibility cloak, his eyes wide and full of anxiety and determination behind his glinting glasses. He notices his friend from down the hall, and calls out her name in an earnest stage whisper. His voice wakes her up all the way, though the sight of his wand's light had already banished some of her disorientation, beforehand.

The girl notices that she must have been sleepwalking, and quickly shakes off the odd sensation from her shoulders, her body and her mind syncing slowly. "What are you doing?" she asks Harry, in the same urgent quiet voice he'd used a moment before.

He doesn't answer her, staring down with wide eyes at the map in his hand, and suddenly saying, "Behind you!"

Alice turns around, but there's only blackness there, thick and secretive. She hurries up to Harry and stands at his side, looking down at the map, which shows footsteps labeled with a banner reading 'Peter Pettigrew' in their immediate vicinity... and grown closer by the second. But though she and Harry continually look around in urgency for the man himself, the light of his wand only extends so far into the darkness. And even when the map shows the footsteps to be passing right beside them, they can see nothing.

"Do you think something's wrong with it?" Alice says with a partly relieved exhale, once the footsteps are shown turning around a corner far down the hallway, past them.

"Put that bloody light out!" exclaims one of the paintings nearby, blinking against the light from Harry's wand.

"Sorry-" Harry starts, but then, quickly, Alice catches sight of Severus Snape approaching on the map, and points, putting a warning finger to her lips. "Mischief managed," Harry whispers under his breath, quickly shoving the map into the pocket of his sweater, and putting the light at the tip of his wand out with a shaky, "Nox," both he and Alice growing as silent as possible, huddling closer to each other in the tense darkness.

But just as soon as Harry has extinguished his own wand, Professor Snape illuminates his, and appears suddenly before the two perpetrators of the curfew, intimidating in his usual black robes, towering over them both.

"Mr. Potter," he says in his sharp drawl, and then looks sideways at Alice who, intimidated, steps a bit closer to Harry. "I'm sure," Snape says to her with a frigid amusement, "that Lucius Malfoy would be comforted to know that his youngest son has been left sleeping alone, in the dead of night. And with such... foul individuals lurking about."

"Light!" complains another of the paintings, finding nothing serious about these mortals' petty trials, but the request is thoroughly ignored.

Harry's jaw tenses at the implications of Snape's words, and Alice looks down in shame and fear that word might get back to Lucius about her sleepwalking.

"Turn out your pockets," Snape demands of Harry, smirking darkly. The boy starts to protest, but Snape wins in the end, and Harry does so, holding out the map: now disguised as a regular piece of folded parchment. But the professor is not fooled, and, touching the tip of his wand to the parchment, he intones "Reveal your secrets," in his slow and dangerous voice.

Alice tenses and shivers against Harry as the ink starts to spread magically over the map. But then her nerves fade as an unexpected message appears on the map's cover. "Read it," Snape says coldly, and Harry obliges, reading the message which seems to have been written in a sarcastic, teenaged hand, some years ago.

"Messrs. Moony, Wormtail Padfoot and Prongs, kindly request..."

"Go on," prompts Snape.

Harry conceals an amused and spiteful smile of his own as he goes on: "Kindly request that Severus Snape keep his abnormally large nose out of other peoples' business."

"You impudent little-" hisses the professor, raising his wand.

But just then, Lupin, in a tweed jacket, steps forward. Harry and Alice's eyes widen in equal parts relief and shame as the light from Snape's wand reveals his shadowy form to them. Snape turns around, following their gazes, his shoulders squaring at the sight of the other professor.

"Ah. Lupin. Out for a walk... in the moonlight... are we?"

The implications of his words aren't lost on Alice, and she has to fight hard to keep an expression of disgust at the black-clothed professor from taking control of her face.

"What seems to be the matter, Severus?" asks Remus. Whatever reaction he may have had to the other professor's words, he keeps it hidden masterfully inside.

"These two are in possession of some sort of dark magic," Snape says, turning a hard, dark gaze on Harry and Alice.

Lupin leans forward and takes the map from Harry, chuckling to himself as he reads the message on the parchment. "I think, professor, that it's quite harmless—merely a trick parchment, meant to insult anyone who touches it. Likely, Mr. Potter found it at a joke shop. But-" he places the map against his chest, tucking it inside of his sweater "-I will certainly take it back to my office for further investigation. And I will handle these two, from here, as well."

Harry and Alice look at each other quietly, Snape's face becoming dark and almost haunted as Remus turns and beckons for the two youngsters to follow him. They do so quickly, relieved to have escaped Professor Snape, but they both know that they are far from the end of their troubles for the night.

Back in the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, Alice lingers in the corner while Remus rebukes Harry for not turning in the map sooner. The girl flinches when he tells the boy that he's done his parents' memory a disservice by putting his life in danger in such a way, wandering around the castle in the middle of the night, with Sirius Black on the loose. But a certain tension lifts when Remus straightens up again, his voice becoming gentler, but still stern, Harry shrunken slightly from the pain his favorite professor's disappointment has caused his pride to suffer.

"Now, Harry," Lupin says, "I refuse to cover up for you, again. You're going to go back to bed, and stay there. And if you don't..." he makes a motion indicating the magical map, "I shall know."

"Professor, I should tell you," Harry says before turning away, "earlier, in the corridor, the map said that Peter Pettigrew was in the castle. So, I think it may be a bit faulty."

"That's impossible," says Remus dismissively, though Alice can detect something else behind his eyes when he speaks. "Go back to your common room, and check on the young Mr. Malfoy before you go up to bed."

"Yes, sir. Good night," says Harry apologetically, leaving Alice with a look of nervous camaraderie before returning to the corridor from the classroom.

Remus lets out an inaudible sigh, his shoulders deflating slightly as he sits down on a nearby chair, illuminated by the cold moonlight slanting through the window. The scars on his cheek are black and menacing in the lighting, as he puts the map down on his knees and mutters with a sad smile on his mouth, "I solemnly swear that I am up to no good," causing Alcie's eyes to widen as the ink returns to the map, and Remus unfolds it, doing just as he'd promised, tracing Harry's path through the castle back to Gryffindor Tower.

"No, I haven't forgotten you're there," he says to Alice at length. "Sit down."

"How did you know how to unlock it?" she asks as she does so.

Remus looks up, and points to the cover of the map. "I'm Moony," he says. "Or... I used to be. Now, tell me what you were doing tonight."

"I was sleepwalking."

"Surely."

"I'm not lying," she protests, in earnest.

He looks at her seriously for a moment, and Alice fears that he might look into her mind again, but he doesn't do any such thing. "Alright," he says, seconds later, choosing to believe her.

Unable to contain herself, the girl stands up again. "Harry found out that Sirius Black is his Godfather when we were in Hogsmeade, the other day."

Remus raises his eyebrows, knowing that for the two of them to be in Hogsmeade would constitute illicit behavior, but staying silent, for the moment.

"Why didn't you tell Harry yourself?" Alice asks, pained by the knowledge of how her friend had been tortured by finding out the news so suddenly. "And why won't you let me tell him that he's actually innocent?"

"You'll do no such thing," Remus demands, standing up, something about his voice making her recoil, startled by the sudden shift in his manner. He calms himself, and sits down again quickly. "It was my mistake, in the first place, but I can't allow you to perpetuate it. I shouldn't have given you such sensitive information in the first place."

Part of her wants to argue with him, to accuse him of underestimating her, but she mutes the combative part of herself, and asks instead: "Why did the map show Peter Pettigrew in the castle? It said he was right in front of us, but we didn't see him. He walked right by."

"I couldn't tell you," says Remus, furrowing his eyebrows, and looking back down at the map. "I don't know."

Alice knows from his tone that he has an inkling as to what the truth might be, a vague suspicion at the very least. But she also knows that getting him to tell her would be impossible—and something inside of her is wary of how near to the Full Moon they are, and the threatening way the light falls across his dark scars. So she turns with a bitter, "Good night, Professor," leaving him sitting there in the cold moonlight, poring worriedly over the hauntingly familiar parchment in his hands.

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Christmas passes in a blur of glittering disbelief, and on the third of January, the day after his transformation, and the day the students will be returning, and Alice going back to London, Remus Lupin picks himself up and limps to Dumbledore's office.

The headmaster, himself, has been pacing in circles around the room, attempting to dull his anxiety with lemon drop upon lemon drop, but finding no success. So, he is partly relieved when Remus enters, though he knows he will have to be the bearer of bad news, if Remus intends to ask what Albus suspects he does.

And sure enough, the expected question arrives soon after, before Remus has even sat down: a request that Dumbledore reconsider keeping Alice at Hogwarts.

The careworn headmaster shakes his head in the negative direction, but raises a finger of hope. "Cecelia Puttock, for one, has already agreed to take young Alice into her house, as soon as February."

Remus feels his heart sink at the headmaster's words, but only slightly—he'd been careful not to keep his hopes up.

"I must say," Dumbledore continues, taking yet another Lemon Drop out of his candy bowl and placing it on his tongue, "I've noticed a quite palpable change in young Draco over the past weeks. I believe our Mr. Malfoy has gotten far more than he bargained for in a caretaker for his sons."

"Thank you headmaster," Remus managing, poorly shielding his great disappointment as he turns away, not seeing any point in remaining in the office for longer than he must, now that his original hopes have been denied.

But when he has almost reached the Griffin staircase, something tugs at his heart, and bids him turn around. He does so, and walks slowly up the stairs to the upper level of the office, Dumbledore looking at him openly from behind his half-moon spectacles.

"Her Patronus..." he confesses cautiously, trusting that the headmaster will understand his concern, "is a wolf."

Dumbledore remains silent for so long that Remus fears he might be upset with him for teaching her how to perform such powerful magic. But instead, the headmaster nods his head up and down, slowly, pensively, seeming to understand the entirety of the situation and the younger wizard's struggle, from just those few words. "Remus," he says after a long moment, "you've been alone too long. It is my belief that you ought to open yourself to whatever possibilities arrive in your hands. Especially when they arrive naturally. Understanding, sometimes, must come second."

"Thank you, Albus," Remus says, concealing his confusion, and turning, going back down the stairs and making headway towards his own classroom. On the way, he puzzles over Dumbledore's words—surely the old wizard hadn't had a perfect grasp on the issue, in order to offer such unwieldy and enigmatic advice. But something about what he'd said resonates deeply within Remus; and he both longs to see Alice again as soon as possible, and to avoid her for as long as he can.

But he soon discovers that the choice between the two has been made for him: upon entering his classroom, he finds Alice already there, waiting for him, in tears.

She'd been packing her and Fynn's things into their trunks for the return journey on the Hogwarts Express, when it had truly struck her what she was going to have to go back to. And so soon, too: it is already half past eleven in the morning, and the train is set to leave at quarter past noon. Not knowing what else to do, she'd left Fynn in the common room, and had fled to Remus's office, terrified by the prospect of having to be subjected to such horrors—both physical and psychological—again (and especially after experiencing the warm freedom of Hogwarts over the Holidays).

The girl crumbles into his arms, now, upon his arrival, sobbing and begging him almost unintelligibly through her tears, to rescue her. "Don't let me go back," she says, her entire body trembling violently, set upon a blade's edge between sanity and chaos. "Keep me here, even if I have to hide under the floorboards. Don't let him have Fynn back, and Draco..."

Her words dissolve again into meaningless warbles of grief and fear, her arms constricting Remus's lungs almost to n unbearable degree. But he finds it hard to breathe, anyway, as he tries desperately to figure out what to say in response, tempted beyond imagination to deny Dumbledore and keep her in the castle—in the dungeons, if that was how it had to be. Anything to keep her from going back.

But the opportunity to speak is swept out from under his feet by the sudden entrance of Fynn. "Mama?" he says to Alice, concerned, standing in the doorway, having followed her through the corridors from Gryffindor Tower.

"Oh-" the girl says, gasping against the tweed material of Remus's jacket, and wiping hastily at her red face in a futile effort to hide her distress from the child, before turning and picking up the boy, hugging him tightly to her chest while she continues to push down her tears.

Using more power than she's ever used in controlling or producing magic, she pulls herself up again, and speaks to Remus over Fynn's shoulder in a measured voice. "Thank you for your help. I have to go, now. There's our trunks to gather, and goodbyes to make. We can't miss the train."

"Your safety will be ensured, soon," Remus interjects quickly, before she can turn. "By spring."

But though she nods her head, her face—still unseen by Fynn-is blank, and he knows she doesn't believe him. "I really have to go," she says quietly, and then turns away from him, straining to keep in the sobs as she walks down the length of the classroom and towards the corridor.

She's almost at the door, when he stops her yet again. For a moment the girl considers pretending that she hadn't heard him, and continuing to escape down the corridor before she can break down. But her feet won't allow her to do so, and instead she turns halfway around.

"Remember," Remus says urgently. "Remember, in dark times, what I taught you."

"I will," she says, remembering her Patronus, and remembering the memory that had strengthened it, almost smiling before she remembers herself, and straightens her face again. "I was wondering... What shape does yours take?" she asks in parting.

Lupin's mouth lifts in a half-smile. "That, I will have to keep a secret," he answers, "until the right time arrives."

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Before departing for the Hogsmeade station, Alice gathers her luggage, finding Harry, Ron and Hermione in the common room and giving them farewell embraces, letting Fynn say his own goodbyes, too, before descending to the main floor.

Draco is lingering just outside of the great hall, waiting for her, when she arrives. "Stay strong," she whispers to him, and he hugs Fynn tightly before stepping back, and letting them go.

Just then, Professor Snape appears behind them, a grim expression on his face. "I've been looking all over the castle for you," he says to Alice sternly. "It's time to leave. You'll be late if you tarry a moment longer, and the train won't be delayed."

On the carriage ride into Hogsmeade, she thinks hard. She thinks of Harry, and sees someone who is always being rescued. And she thinks of herself, and sees with a startling knife of pain in her chest, that she will have to rescue herself. Not even Remus is capable of it—not even Dumbledore.

On the platform, Snape's robes billow out behind him. "Have a safe journey back. Send Mr. Malfoy my best wishes," he says, his voice dark, a terrible smirk twisting his lips as he looks at her: knowingly, and without pity.

"You can be sure that I will," Alice responds, her voice level, before boarding the train.

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Spells used in this chapter:

1\. "Legilimens" the 'mind-reading' spell  
2\. "Expecto Patronum," the spell that produces a Patronus. In Latin, it means "I expect a guardian," which I think is poetic and beautiful  
3\. "Nox," the wand-extinguishing charm, the opposite of "Lumos"

Alright, this update came very late, and I'm frankly disappointed in how long it took me to write it. I had the morning off, today, and finishing this chapter was my first priority. At first, I considered cutting it in half, but then decided against it. Trust me: I was quite productive when I actually had time to sit down and work during this two-day gap, but I only had a few brief moments that were truly free and in settings conducive to the writing process (I am totally incapable of writing fanfiction when sitting in a classroom with people behind me), so it has been difficult. Unfortunately, I do have an excruciatingly busy two weeks ahead (I'm performing in a play this week, and next, I will be hard at work on some very important essays), so this sort of gap between updates may happen a few more times. But once November arrives, a lot of free time is going to open up for me, and I will be able to write and post more frequently!

I'm sorry to confess this, but through writing this fanfic so far, I've really had to come to grips with Dumbledore's real humanness in some matters. We would like to think of him as a divine, godlike wizard who can make no mistakes—indeed, that is how Harry sees him throughout most of the books. But Dumbledore is very much capable of error; there are many plots he concocts and engages in, even within canon, that are quite dangerous to the individuals he mentors (particularly Harry). And though I still adore Dumbledore, I just can't pretend that he's innocent of making some very bad mistakes—even though he always has the best intentions of those depending on him at heart. I don't consider this to be Dumbledore bashing, just a realistic representation of the pressures his character is under. Yes, his role in this story is quite ridiculous for the moment, and he seems to be the main cause of Alice's troubles—but things will even out in due time. It's all a part of the plan, however twisted and meandering the plan may look, at present.

In the same vein, don't be too worried about Snape... he is going to even out soon enough, and Alice will be privy to facets of his character that were always kept away from Harry (until it was too late).

I wrote the bit with Draco's little breakdown right around midnight—I was absolutely bawling, and it wasn't even that poignant. It would totally make me feel better if I knew I wasn't the only one shedding tears. (Hint... hint... please review... please?)

I have to take a moment to laugh at myself when I make these plugs trying to glean reviews out of you guys! But I really would love to hear from you. ;)

I appreciate you all!

Thank you for not plagiarizing my writing!

On_Errand_Bad

13,069 words

Wednesday, 21 October 2020


	8. VIII | Dimly

Note:

Thanks, spadeginsu and chalseali for following the story! Thank you, une-papillon-de-nuit, for your energetic and encouraging review!

Please excuse any typos or weird sentences—this was written between eleven at night and two in the morning.

Again, all, I am sorry for the update delay... this is the week of the play, so I have been pulling some very late nights (not to mention getting in and out of character), and have little time off—much of which must be used for essay writing. I hope you can forgive the strange gaps in updates, and by November things should pick up speed (knock on wood)!

Around the middle of this chapter, Lucius receives a summons from the ministry by owl. This letter is regarding Buckbeak's trial (after the creature 'injured' Draco at the beginning of the term). This event is always getting mixed up in canon-in the books it takes place around April, but in the films Hagrid already knows that Buckbeak has been sentenced to death by the winter Holidays. I've decided to take this liberty and have it happen in February for the sake of this story's timeline.

A much shorter update, this time! I really couldn't manage a 10,000 word behemoth, and wanted to get something new out to you as soon as possible! I hope it doesn't disappoint.

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling the Utmost Venerable.

Chapter Seven Totally Optional Cast (in order of appearance)

Anya Taylor-Joy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Alice  
Jack Gleeson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Fynn Malfoy  
Timothee Chalamet . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Corbin Willoughby  
Elizabeth Moss . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Eloise Wickham  
Jason Isaacs / Lee Pace / Harry Lloyd . . . . . Lucius Malfoy

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VIII | Dimly

January, February 1994  
The Malfoy Manor / A Series of Houses

The day of her return to the Manor is light grey, with a miserable heaviness hanging in the air—black birds etched against the motionless sheet of clouds like unsteady handwriting.

At first, her mind is plagued by a constant, pressing fear that Lucius will find cruel means by which to punish her for leaving Fynn asleep in the tower. But there is no such punishment, and after two days of silence have passed, she wonders if Professor Snape had possibly given a good report. Perhaps, he isn't really as menacing as she had perceived him to be.

For a time, Alice allows herself to believe she's safe. She continues to ride Corbin's beloved horses at a leisurely pace around the snowy grounds, concocts new games to play with Fynn, and joins Eloise and the other maids in the kitchens to help make meals in the mornings and evenings.

She comes to realize that Draco had been right about Lucius; she is grateful that he doesn't lift a hand—or his cane, for that matter—to his son. But this doesn't stop her from being saddened by the fact that he doesn't pay any attention to the boy whatsoever. To pay Fynn back as best she can for the years of neglect he'd experienced before her arrival, the girl spends every spare moment with him, often sleeping on the rug in his room beside his bed, not able to imagine being away from him. She is sure that she feels towards the child the way a mother would towards her son, and it no longer bothers her when Fynn calls her as such.

For an entire month, life is simple. Lucius turns a blind eye to the happenings around the household, and not a glimpse of him can be caught on the grounds or in the corridors.

But then, one evening, he does return, and a house elf is sent to Alice's chambers late at night, after Fynn has already been put to bed, to tell her that her presence has been requested in the master's study. A wave of worry washes over her, but the girl keeps her head held high: something inside of her tells her that he will not be able to hurt her.

Outside the frosty windows in his chilled study, the grounds are dark, and her eyes can only make out the blurry outline of the deep blue woods against the solid, washed-out sky. Even the white of the snow, and the icy surface of the lake, is unlit by any sign of the moon, and the white beacon of the albino peacock's feathers cannot be seen anywhere among the barren tree trunks.

The green flames flicker and hiss quietly in the fireplace, and for just a moment she thinks she sees Remus's face in them, but then it is gone as the door of the study closes behind her: a cruel trick of the light and the time of night, played upon her anxious eyes.

Lucius sits in his black, tall-backed chair, facing the fireplace. The entire room has been reorganized since she was last inside it: the desk has been moved to the opposite side of the room (Alice cringes to imagine how the house elves must have labored under its weight to move it—Lucius takes great enjoyment from seeing the creatures use muggle methods to perform physical work). The surface is piled high with documents, files and books, barely organized.

The wizard himself is surprisingly disheveled, a number of his white hairs lying out of place against the wrinkled collar of his robes. The green flames' shadows dance across his face, making his eyes look deeply set in his skull, and giving his skin an eerily pallid shade. He looks both diminished and powerful in body; an uncomfortable juxtaposition of superiority and mortality that makes Alice's heart speed up dangerously.

"Draco," he says slowly, his voice full of icy thought, "wrote me to say that he thinks you're an excellent servant. I'm sure you felt watched during your time at that school—and that is because you were; and thoroughly so. I've been assured that you acted as a model extension of my intentions."

"Thank you, sir," says Alice meekly, taking a risk by speaking so soon, and unbidden. But Lucius makes no move to lash out, his face still for a long moment, before he nods his head minutely, and proceeds.

"However, I do not approve of the fact that you've made it a habit to keep the company of Harry Potter, his Weasley friend, and that incorrigible Mudblood girl."

Alice feels her forehead crease in confusion as to the unfamiliar term, 'Mudblood,' and she thinks of possibly asking the wizard to tell her what it means, knowing that to make herself subordinate in such a way might serve to protect her from any possible wrath he might be planning to expose her to.

But she'd been too late to concoct such a shield against his intentions before she'd even walked through the door. And she realizes this quite sharply with a sudden change of demeanor in the man: he sits up straighter, his jaw setting stiffly against the flames, and for the first time, he looks directly at her, his eyes almost pitch black in the absence of light.

"Come," he demands after a moment, his voice dark and cold.

She does so, having no other option, her stocking feet quiet but unbearably heavy as she makes her way across the floor, standing by the arm of his chair. His eyes are on her now, boring icily into her face, her lips, her paling cheeks, as she diverts her gaze and looks longingly into the fire, wishing for a moment that Remus might appear and rescue her, but then taking it back as a chill rushes over her at the thought of him witnessing her meekness under Lucius's demands.

"Sit," says Lucius.

"Pardon me?" Alice manages.

But he only has to look at her for her to do it, slowly maneuvering herself to sit down on his thigh, her feet leaving the ground dangerously. She hates herself for it, but her mind is already starting to pry itself slowly away from her body, as it had become adept at doing before the holidays. But another part of herself holds onto hope: maybe this will be different; maybe he won't touch her; maybe he'll change his mind; maybe he'll suddenly become disgusted with her and send her and Fynn away forever.

But these are foolish hopes. The wizard takes her chin in his hand roughly and kisses her grossly on the mouth, his tongue invading swiftly, threatening to make her gag. She holds her head still against his intrusion, and tries to send herself away to some grey, red-brushed field in autumn, tries to send herself away to a beautiful yellow and green wood, to a foggy place in cold, calm nature, tries to feel Remus's hand around hers. But she can't do it—the images are fleeting and weak, and only leave her more disgusted by the hands that are on her in reality: climbing from the sides of her head to her chest and the rest of her body like spiders.

A moment arrives at which she realizes, with a pang of horror, that she is not going to be able to escape her body this time, and there is such an element of terror in this realization, that she starts to fight back, against her better judgement—her hands suddenly pushing of their own volition against the wizard's unyielding chest, her face attempting to turn away from his locking mouth. Though her power begins to surge inside of her body, she fights even harder to remain silent: the thought of Fynn hearing her cries is unbearable.

"Shut up, little bitch," hisses Lucius, breaking away from his soliciting kiss, somehow whispering and roaring at once. "You don't want to have to explain yourself to the boy, do you?"

And Alice is suddenly certain that he had, indeed, read her mind—the way Remus had done on that day at Hogwarts. Quickly she erects what she hopes might serve as a barrier around her innermost thoughts, but still, she does as he'd told her, and as she'd told herself, staying silent in the face of his continued molestations. There is no one in the manor who can help her—except for, perhaps herself. But though her mind hasn't gone away, her strength most certainly has.

She keeps struggling, though, unable to help the instinct as Lucius's hand bunches up the skirt of her nightgown and painfully grips her womanhood. That's when she sees it—for a split second, when she's pulling on the sleeve of his coat, bunching it up along his forearm, and begging him quietly to have mercy on her. The mark. Or, the tip of it—a slight black curl of ink... but more than ink. She is startled by it, and almost looks further, her fingertips making contact with the chilled skin of his arm.

But just as soon, his sleeve falls again, and she is being thrown to the floor with a hard shove that leaves her body burning, her face pressed viciously into the freezing floor, her cheekbone on the verge of shattering, already, as Lucius straddles, settling his heavy, cold weight on top of her. She knows this feeling too well—but this time, there is a new angle to his actions, to the movements of his body. Something so familiar that she feels, suddenly, that she will be trapped on the floor forever, as he continues to force her down, more roughly than ever before, her face feeling as though it might fracture into a million pieces, like the head of a very old and tired doll.

He increases the pressure upon her skull as he leans down, but still her head withstands his assault as his freezing, snake-like breath trickles into her ear. "Don't let obtaining a glimpse of the light," he whispers frigidly, "trick you into thinking you're in it. That is a fool's mistake. And you'll thank me someday for warning you about it."

The thought flits into her head, that Lucius Malfoy must be a sad man to believe such a thing. But promptly she cuts herself off. Empathizing with the monster atop her is not an option. She must think of Fynn, must think of Remus and Draco and Harry... but her mind won't settle on anything other than the feeling of the frigid air against her skin as her skirts are pulled up.

She is entirely stuck in the miserable vessel of her corporeal self, as he brutally shoves himself into her, invading more than her body with his sharp thrusts. His hand covers her mouth, smothering her, and her cheek becomes burned as it is ground repeatedly into the floor, the wetness of her tears making the friction ever-harsher.

At the end of it (though, really, it isn't an end, only the beginning of a short hiatus until the next round of misery), he pulls her to her feet with such speed that the blood rushes violently to her head, rendering her momentarily blind. She is sent back to her chambers without the house elf from before as an escort—for which she is grateful, for the silence of one of the poor creatures always makes the coldness of the house more intense.

On her journey up the great quiet staircases, and across the frigid dark corridors, she feels her body being inducted into the age of the house, her limbs stiffening and her heart slowing to a point at which she is forced to kneel down on the floor until she can bear to rise again.

Back in her chambers—incapable of looking in at the precious sleeping face of Fynn, for fear that she will somehow hate him, or find him changed in a demonic way—she eases herself down onto the floor next to the long-dead fire, and prays for Remus to appear there. Not only his face in the gravelly embers, but a real, solid arm, outheld to pull her through the floo network to safety. But no such rescue appears.

She sits there for hours, feeling herself diminish like a piano chord, until the early morning, when suddenly, beyond the cold glass windowpane, the moon reveals itself: full, a perfect white disk, casting away the veil of grey clouds which had inhibited its light. She looks up at the sensation of cool light on her face, and crawls on all fours to the window, gripping the windowsill for dear life as she observes the celestial body, her lips open and trembling: the lips of a water-deprived traveler at the sight of a well.

This, she knows, is a message for her—Remus's consolation to her, from somewhere faraway, and yet, nearby.

From beneath her pillow she draws her wand, feeling its energy warm her thin, drained hand, and with trembling knees she whispers, "Expecto Patronum," her breath fogging against the frigid glass. A comforting flourish of blue, pulsing sparks emanates from the tip of her wand, and soon, two little wolves the size of glass ornaments appear in the air above her, dancing, chasing each other around in circles. She looks up at them, the ghost of a smile passing across her lips and her exhausted eyes, the sight keeping her aloft, if only barely.

*******************************************************************************************************

She can only maintain her outward strength for so long before Fynn begins to notice her battered state. Eloise and Corbin have long since been aware of her various injuries, both of the body and of the mind, but Fynn, upon seeing them first, is so shocked that Alice, too, is forced to look at herself in the mirror and remind herself that such markings are not normal.

The boy almost cries at first sight of her wounds (the rash on her cheek, the bruises on her shoulders, collarbones and elbows, the red spots on her jaw and neck from Lucius's ruthless mouth, and the perpetual, fall-induced limp she suffers from), and so Alice is compelled to conceal them magically, more afraid that Fynn might become upset by or afraid of her, than she could ever be afraid of the damage being done to her own person.

Nightly, she is called to Lucius's study, nightly she is pinned down, nightly evil is hissed into her ear while he forces his manhood into her body. Her disgust and loathing for all things, but mostly herself, is unmatched at the moment when he releases himself into her, and in the minutes that follow, when the product of his twisted relief rolls down the insides of her thighs throughout her miserable, stiff walk back to her cold, lonesome chambers.

Yet she continues to bear it, incapable of running away for Fynn's sake, knowing that to try to rationalize the cruelty would mean falling into madness. Dumbledore's promise to help her escape by spring grows more and more distant as the machine of time cranks out week after week, though something within her still retains a spark of hot fire, her magic alive and well behind the strong, tall walls of an impeccably-built fortress.

*******************************************************************************************************

In the middle of February, an owl arrives just after noon, carrying a summons for Lucius from the Ministry of Magic. The bird is quite dignified, landing on the mantel above the green-flamed fireplace rather than on the desk, and doesn't leave feathers anywhere, or squawk irritatingly: Alice knows it's a Ministry bird.

Lucius, without explaining the letter, takes off in a self-satisfied storm of wine-red robes and sharp white hair, the serpent-head handle of his staff shining cruelly in the meager grey light of the morning. Alice watches him go down the walkway, reaching the gates and then apparating off the grounds with a flourish of his robes and a dramatic crack, which she's come to know he prefers to accompany his departures and arrivals—unless he intends to unpleasantly surprise the household with a silent return.

A kind of heavy relief descends upon her like a drugged sleep once he has left, and she breathes out quietly, her breath fogging against the glass of the mullioned window. For a minute, she stands there, unbothered, looking out at the fog-blanketed grounds. But soon enough, her numbness is interrupted by the sound of sharp footsteps clicking against the floor behind her, and she turns around to find the maid, and her closest friend at the manor, Eloise Wickham, standing at the door into the corridor.

"Hurry up," she says to Alice, her eyes wide and bright with anxiety. "We don't know how much longer we have until he comes back. This could be one of his tests."

"Why? What's going on?" says the girl, something in Eloise's tone making her suspicious of ulterior motives.

"Dumbledore," whispers the maid under her breath. "I'm the agent. The network he spoke to you about, it's ready—they're prepared to take you, now, but we must hurry." The woman reaches out her hand to Alice, her hand steady though her voice trembles. "Please, Alice. There might not be much time."

The maid can see quite clearly in the girl's eyes that a wary excitement has arrived in her soul, and soon enough the girl has crossed the room and taken the woman's hand, allowing herself to be led out into the corridors and down multiple flights of stairs as Eloise continues to explain the situation: a pair of wizards involved in the ploy are stationed on a muggle residential street at the border of the Malfoy estate, and will take her to the first location in the complex network, built to distract the ministry and Lucius from tracking her down, by this very night.

It's not until they've reached the door down into the servants' quarters (from which Alice assumes they will escape using the cellar door into the tunnel that lets out several meters from the rear of the manor) that a flash of worry cuts across the girl's consciousness. "What about Fynn?" she says breathlessly, her heart suddenly dropping out of its intended seat in her pounding chest.

Eloise's own heart sinks, a part of her rearing up in spite for Albus Dumbledore. She's known him to often leave emotionally loaded elements of his plans for other people to execute on his behalf, but this has reached a new level entirely. "That is the cost," she says to the girl, nodding her head and breathing in, retaining her composure.

At all costs, Dumbledore had said.

"It would be too much of a risk to bring his child along with you," she explains, her voice thickening with pain as she watches the implications of her words dawn on Alice's face. "This is the way it must be done."

Alice, it goes without saying, resists. Eloise knows that she must act, knows that this is of utmost importance, not only to the girl, but to the world.

At all costs, Dumbledore had said. And the maid repeats the words to herself, now, inside her head, knowing the fate that awaits her if she does what she knows must be done, and knowing she will do it, nonetheless. She must. At all costs. At all costs.

"What are you doing?" says Alice, her voice tight and panicked, as Eloise tightens her grip around the girl's wrist, and removes her wand from her pocket.

Premonition races across the younger witch's face.

"I'm sorry," says Eloise, a tear slipping from the corner of her eye.

But Alice doesn't act fast enough.

"Imperio," the maid whispers.

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Spells used in this chapter:

1\. "Expecto Patronum," the Patronus-casting spell  
2\. "Imperio," one of the three unforgivable curses, used to manipulate whoever it is used on

I had to listen to Sam Smith throughout the entire writing process for this chapter, just to get into the right headspace to portray Alice's development accurately—there was just no other way. It was very difficult to write, even if it was quite a bit shorter than my usual updates are.

I really started this story because I wanted to explore the detrimental impacts of the pureblood aristocracy in the Harry Potter universe upon women who are trapped in that system. The very first line of this fanfiction, "No one notices the maid," is a big reflection of that, and I think that one of many reflections of this theme is found in this chapter when Eloise uses the Imperius curse on Alice. This was a very powerful moment, and even if its full impact won't be known until later, when things start to collide and line up more, I still hope it struck you guys, in a way.

Thank you for not plagiarizing my writing!

On_Errand_Bad

3,875 words

Saturday 24 October, 2020


	9. IX | The Cup

Note:  
This chapter is going to be pretty dark. Consider yourself warned.  
I wanted to quickly note that in chapter eight the location header included “a series of houses,” when that didn’t turn out to be true. That was because I was planning to write a longer chapter than I ended up writing—that location is actually going to be moved over to the beginning of this chapter. So, my apologies for any confusion, and I hope that clears it up.  
I will use a more fragmented writing style (or at least I plan to) for the first part of this chapter. Alice is in a weird place right now, so I think that if my sentences are shorter and more detached, it might help to demonstrate that. Just wanted to warn you and let you know that this is, indeed, my writing... just different.  
Also, I just wanted to say that throughout this process I have been using an actual calendar for reference as far as the full moon goes. In August of 1994 the full moon was on the 21st, so technically Remus probably wouldn’t have attended the world cup on the 18th for safety reasons. But because his involvement in the events there is important to the story, I’ve decided to disregard that more than I usually would. I hope you’ll forgive this little continuity error.  
Leila Davis, your review made me shed a tear of gratitude—thank you so much for your kind feedback, and I hope the story continues to satisfy!!! Une-papillon-de-nuit, I continue to love your reviews deeply! Reannah, TEAslytherin, Cytotechchic, Ashes2Dust18, LegallyBlondeAngel and scaryfast203, thank you so much for following the story! Thank you scaryfast203, LegallyBlondeAngel and Cytotechchic for favoriting, too!  
I wish I could see all of you, and give you (socially distanced) hugs!!! You make my day!  
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling the Utmost Venerable.  
Chapter Nine Totally Optional Cast (in order of appearance *sorry for the super long cast… literally everyone is in this chapter*)  
Anya Taylor-Joy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Alice  
Cillian Murphy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Alexander Brandt  
Charlotte Gainsbourg . . . . . . . . . . . . . Cecelia Puttock  
Idris Elba . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Her Husband  
Daniel Radcliffe . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Harry Potter  
Julie Walters . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Molly Weasley  
James Phelps . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Fred Weasley  
Oliver Phelps . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . George Weasley  
Rupert Grint . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Ron Weasley  
Bonnie Wright . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Ginny Weasley  
Mark Williams . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Arthur Weasley  
David Thewlis / Domhnall Gleeson . . . . . . Remus Lupin  
Emma Watson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Hermione Granger  
Jeff Rawle . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Amos Diggory  
Robert Pattinson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Cedric Diggory  
Jason Isaacs / Lee Pace / Harry Lloyd . . . Lucius Malfoy  
Tom Felton . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Draco Malfoy

_______________________________________________________________________________________  
IX | The Cup  
Spring, Summer 1994  
A Series of Houses / The Burrow  
Winter turns to spring. Spring turns to summer.  
Fynn.  
Alice gets the sense that she moves into and out of more places than she is conscious of. She will wake up one morning in the backseat of a muggle car, and then wake up again in a different one, or in a strange house that she doesn’t see ever again, after falling unconscious once more.  
Remus. Remus. Remus.  
But this is not a challenge, letting most of the places that harbor her pass by in a blur. She is content with vague sense of direction, of pressure in the atmosphere, of darkness and light and depth.   
Eloise Wickham. That deceitful bitch. Dumbledore.  
There is a feeling of going far north by car. On the first night, she thinks she stays in only one place, maybe in an old drafty house on an Edinburgh street corner—if it’s the first night at all. She doesn’t know. Sometimes she spends the night in a muggle car, or in a basement, and the faces she sees in passing, careening around her, are ever-changing.   
Draco.  
Sometimes, the faces move, the mouths trying to talk to her. But she doesn’t care. She is empty and dead, and forgets things easily. Days pass like water through her fingers. There is a vague sensation of moving southward, a vague sensation of being in a city, of being in the wilderness, of being in the middle of the ocean.  
Corbin. Horses. Peacocks. Lucius.  
There is a period of some days when she is sure she is blind. But she realizes, even after she becomes conscious of her eyesight again, that she doesn’t care.  
Fynn.  
_____________________________________________________________________________  
But there are two places she does remember, as the months pass by, as the temperatures grow warmer, remote from the senses of her slowly deteriorating body.  
The first time she resurfaces—if only slightly—from the mud of her subconscious, she is laying down on a couch in a large room, tall windows placed every so often between floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Green spring sunlight slants through the glass, illuminating the swirling dust motes in the slow, warm air.  
She is incapable of movement, but if she had stood up from the divan and crossed the room to one of the windows, she would have looked out upon the row of professorial residences at Cambridge University. As it is, she remains laying on the divan in the midst of old-smelling pillows, vaguely hearing a male voice in an adjacent room, humming a muggle tune by The Beatles, and feeling as though she is bound to pass out if another instant is allowed to pass.  
But she does not lose consciousness, and so remains lying there for another hour, listening and trying to place the names of the different songs as the man sings through an entire album’s worth. Until, finally, when the sun slants at a new angle through the windowpanes, so that she is trapped beneath a beam of hot yellowness on her cheek, a door at the far end of the personal library and study opens, and the still-singing man enters, carrying a stack of books and a pot of tea.  
“Oh—” he says, upon sighting the girl, awake. “Excuse me.”  
He’s a smallish man with a rather thin build, but something in his jaw makes her wary of him. However, just as she thinks this, he sets down his books and teapot on the desk in the corner, and pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose in such a way, that she is reminded of Harry. So, rather than recoil when he makes his way across the room and touches her forehead with the back of his hand to test her temperature, she lays still, and is rather comforted.  
The man nods to himself and takes his hand away, sitting down in a chair next to the divan, folding his hands on his knees and looking at her curiously, worriedly, but most of all… kindly.  
“I’ve introduced myself to you before, but I’m sure you don’t remember,” he poses gently, his voice carrying an Irish lilt. “My name is Alexander Brandt, but if you’re so inclined, you can call me Alex, or… professor.” He smiles lightly, his eyes suddenly a-glimmer with something unfamiliar to the girl. “I am a professor, in actuality, at the muggle university, here. But, you understand, it would be a much better thing to do my work at Hogwarts. I hear the Defense Against the Dark Arts professorial position usually opens up annually—would I be correct?”  
The girl doesn’t know the answer, so doesn’t try to move her head, knowing such efforts would be futile anyway.  
“Well. Maybe I’m wrong and you do remember hearing this before. I won’t bore you, either way. Do you remember where you were last?”  
This time, Alice is moved to try shaking her head in the negative, wanting to know her circumstances. But still she cannot move her head, and so settles for putting a certain amount of emotion into her eyes, which she hopes will translate her curiosity to Alexander, wordlessly.  
Her tactic is successful. “I see,” he says. “Well, you’ve been in a number of houses and flats in recent months, to distract anyone trying to trace you. Muggle cars has been the method of transportation—understandable, as you still have the trace on you, so apparation—and the Floo network, as well—would be rather moot.”  
The professor studies her for a moment, and then leans forward, almost conspiratorially, with a confession to make. “I understand poor company already, but I have to make an admission to you—would that be alright?” Again, Alice puts some amount of emotion in her eyes, inviting him to tell her whatever he wishes. Seeing the message, he settles forward, his elbows on his knees, eyes downcast and manner grave. “I have to tell you that I’ve really only agreed to foster you in the hopes that Dumbledore might invite me to fill the Dark Arts post in the coming year. It’s open yet again… the last professor, Remus Lupin—surely, you’ve heard of him…” Alice puts a look of affirmation in her eyes, letting the man know that she indeed knows Lupin personally. “…well, some of the parents at Hogwarts got window his… condition… and he’s excused himself from the post of his own volition. Who knows where he is, now. But. I know that Dumbledore is aware of my goals, and likely, he asked me to help him in this endeavor—this endeavor of rescuing you—because he knew I couldn’t refuse, with those aspirations in mind.”  
He settles back in the chair, and Alice tries to pay attention to him, though her own thoughts are now fixated on the new knowledge that Remus had resigned from his post at Hogwarts, and she is now full of worry about where he might have gone; whether she will see him again. “Point being,” says the muggle-University professor, “if you could do me a favor, and when next you see the Headmaster, put a good word in for me… I would be very grateful, and indebted to you.”  
The girl is too exhausted to try to relay any emotion to him through her eyes, and so remains dormant and impartial, barely registering his request through her fears regarding Remus.   
“Well,” says Alexander Brandt. “Right. Thank you, in advance. I haven’t given you your potion yet, have I?”  
He’s been sustaining her using potions and spells, as she is too weak to chew food, and barely ever awake. At his words, the girl becomes vaguely aware of this, through some strange sequence of recent out-of-body memories, but soon she drifts off again—so that when the man returns to the library with his potions, her eyes are closed, and her mind far away, yet again.  
Over the next days, she feels herself conscious more than she has been in a while, and comes to loathe the feeling. She suffers from severe survivor’s guilt after leaving Fynn behind, and detests the angry, violent thoughts she has against Eloise Wickham, for tricking her away from the Manor illegally. A tangible depression settles over her, and she starts having dreams (or, not quite dreams, but consistent visions occupying her mind in a dual reality, regardless of whether she is awake or asleep) of the two Malfoy sons, cold and alone in their separate rooms, neglected… or worse… by their father.  
And then come the visions of Lucius , himself, most of which become so overwhelming to her inner senses, so quickly, that her conscious mind snaps to darkness in order to survive, leaving her soul whirling out in the dark space of her inner universe.  
Alexander has a habit of bursting out into poetry recitations, or rambling on to himself about scientific postulations, or string theory, or Stephen Hawking. But she takes no interest in his strange musings, in the books and papers he pores over at his desk, in the songs he belts from elsewhere in the house, or those he plays over the gramophone in the library itself, while the spring rain shivers down from the clouds and taps cruelly at the windows.  
Soon, comes another muggle car.   
More days.  
She has a terrible inkling, that she’d been rushed out of the professor’s residence in a hurry. That something bad has been done to him, because of her.  
But just as soon she is sure she’d dreamed him up entirely, in the first place.  
___________________________________________________________________  
Another island of awareness comes to her in a small London apartment. A witch named Cecelia Puttock lives there, along with her husband, or her lover, or someone of that nature, with profoundly dark skin and profoundly bright eyes. He plays the cello for an important muggle orchestra all day long, and only eats, sleeps talks to Cecelia, or plays the cello when he does come home for a period of hours every night.  
Cecelia is very quiet, going around her apartment almost like a mouse, not encouraging Alice to speak, and seeming to prefer it when the girl is asleep—which causes Alice much relief, as she’d felt in Alexander Brandt’s house that to be asleep was a crime. The only time there is any real noise in the house is when the man returns home and plays the cello, practicing for hours on end, sometimes playing more soft pieces in the room that Alice is confined to, and smiling to her as his fingers work up and down the fingerboard of the sighing instrument.  
Living in the London apartment is a more faded experience than living in Cambridge had been, but still comes with a number of distinct moments—the most important of all being this:  
The keyhole of her bedroom is unnaturally wide, and one night, when she is lying awake at an unusual hour of night, and the rest of the building is quiet, she happens to look through it into the connected bedroom. Her eyes widen slightly, making out two shadowy forms, two bodies, and for a moment she fears that someone has broken into the house, before she realizes that the two bodies are those of Cecelia and her lover.  
She watches, unable to take her eyes away, almost not in control of her eyes, out of her body, as they slowly remove each other’s clothes, laying down upon the bed. Soon, the two bodies begin to move, the man on top of Cecelia, her host, looking into her eyes as he moves. With a stir of discomfort and fear, the girl realizes they’re having sex, and watches, stunned, wondering at how the woman doesn’t cry out, or scream, or sob. Surely, he must be hurting her…   
But then comes a whisper, from the woman to the man, something carried indefinitely through the shadowed dark: “I love you,” she tells him, as he moves in and out of her body—and a sound, not of pain, but of bliss, sneaks from between the woman’s lips, before she uses her mouth to gently kiss the cellist.  
Something about this is frightening and unfamiliar to the girl, but she can’t help but continue watching, still thinking about what had passed between the two adults in the adjacent room, even long after the movement has ended, and both of them are laying asleep in the bed, still in sight through the keyhole.  
For hours, Alice is awake on her own bed, staring at them, or at the ceiling. And though she finds herself afraid, confused, and slightly guilty after watching the foreign interaction in the other bedroom… something quiet and still inside of her is comforted, and she longs suddenly for the simplicity of Remus.  
All at once, remembering the movements of the adults’ bodies through the keyhole, and remembering the woman’s breathless words to the cellist, Alice realizes she is in love with Remus.   
Her wand, which has remained in the back pocket of the muggle pants given to her at some point along the way, suddenly itches to be handled. She wants—needs—to cast her Patronus, wants—needs—to see that small blue-lit wolf take shape before her eyes, wants—needs—for her sudden emotion to be explained and legitimized by a tangible magic.  
But though she has no strength with which to reach for her wand, and definitely no strength with which to work magic, another type of magic entirely lingers inside her mind, stirring and tingling in its very center, even when she sleeps.  
_______________________________________________________________________  
Cambridge and London are only two vague moments, which she understands are islands of consciousness in a sea of unawareness that plagues weeks and months between.  
Days pass in and out of existence easy as drips of water falling from the tips of the spring leaves—which she sees outside of some window, somewhere, sometime.  
She knows no one and no where—and she doesn’t know herself, either.  
Fynn. Draco. Remus.  
__________________________________________________________________________________________  
One days in mid-summer, she wakes, for the first time in months, to see faces she recognizes. Or, at least, one face she recognizes by name, and another which she seems to vaguely remember from somewhere, though she knows she’s never seen it before.  
The faces are those of Harry Potter and Molly Weasley.  
The latter asks her how she is, and tries to question her, before suddenly breaking into tears and fleeing the room. Harry takes over and tells her she is in the Weasleys’ house, that this is the end of the line, that she’s safe, now, that she’s “out,” and there won’t be any more shifting around to suffer from. He then proceeds to catch her up on all the things that had happened at the end of his third year, involving Buckbeak the Hippogriff, the Dementors, and Sirius Black.  
But he can only avoid the real subject for so long, and eventually he asks why she didn’t tell him what was happening over the winter holidays at Hogwarts. She wants to speak to him very badly. She works to open her lips slightly, and puts it firmly in her mind to tell him that she doesn’t know the answer to his question—that she is sorry, that she didn’t want him to fear for her as she feared for herself.  
But when she tries to speak, only a thin, high stream of air hisses through her throat, shapeless, meaningless. She feels a series of tears roll down her cheeks, before she fades into a wickedly conscious sleep, Harry sitting beside the bed, waiting for something. She doesn’t know for what, but regardless, she doubts it will ever arrive.  
Fred, George, Ginny, Ron, Harry, and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley come to visit her daily in the guest room, at the very top of the Burrow, and there is never a time at which there isn’t someone in the room with her, watching her, trying to help her talk, trying to make her eat.  
The familiarity of their faces jolts her out of her subconscious on a new level. She feels everything, remembers everything. Her surroundings are sharper and clearer to her than her surroundings have been in many, many weeks.  
She knows that this has marked the end of her ability to recede into blissful unconsciousness; that she will have to suffer in her body, have to suffer the cruelty of being awake and aware, indefinitely, from this point onward.  
Each available member of the redhead clan, along with Harry the black-haired outlier, comes into the guest room at least once every day, and tries to coax her into coming out, in their own way. It is quickly understood that she is incapable of walking, or even of standing up, or even of talking. So, for the time being, they make their peace (though not completely) with allowing her to remain laying on the bed as long as she needs, helping her to turn every so often, sustaining her as the others had, using potions and various spells.  
Being awake is like trying to go to sleep. She feels all the little skittering creatures and all the dirt and all the moving tree branches and air outside the too-thin, too-bright window—feels them as sharply as though they are under her own skin.  
The Weasley family owns a spotted cow named Polly, who is brought home from the fields whenever she wanders too far. The passing of the cow, led by the lanky figures of George and Fred, from one side of the window frame to the other, is often the highlight of the girl’s morning. Over time, Alice becomes more aware of the state of things inside the bizarre but warm country house.  
Percy, one of the older siblings, is at an internship at the Ministry of Magic for the summer, and Bill and Charlie, the oldest brothers, are both away abroad at their own jobs. It is just Fred and George, Ron, Ginny, and Harry in the house along with Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. Harry has been staying with them for the summer, and all of the siblings are looking forward to taking him to the Quidditch World Cup in a month or so.  
Fred and George ask her pointedly, at one point, whether she likes Quidditch, and she is so overcome with fear at the prospect of flying broomsticks and large crowds that she feels something inside of her stomach roil, and she would be ill if her stomach weren’t a void.  
She doesn’t eat—cannot. Even swallowing water is a miserable task. But that, at least, she can make herself do. It’s easier than eating, and it purges her stomach of its need of solid contents—even if only for a brief period of time.  
Her renewed ability to consume water, along with something inside of herself that grows steadily warmer as she realizes the hope contained within the Weasleys’ and Harry’s never-ebbing support for her, enables her at last, to speak, after a week and a half has passed under the care of their friendship, and the country air. The first sounds are meager, and like small chirpings, almost bird-like. But slowly, the sounds evolve—with more water, fresh air, and encouragement from Harry—into intelligible words.  
A sudden jolt of adrenaline courses through her when the first true sounds come to her, and all at once, she is encompassed by the sense that she must say what she needs to, as soon as possible—that this renewed ability to use her voice might suddenly be stolen away from her again, at any second.  
After making a series of inquiries, her words stitched together slowly and cautiously, most syllables connected by long, thin threads that require her listeners to pay close attention, she learns the answers to the three questions which have been welling up within her for the past months.  
One: Eloise Wickham, the maid who helped her escape, is now in Azkaban.  
Two: There is no word from Draco and Fynn. No one has come in or out of the Malfoy Manor in months.  
Three: Remus did, indeed, retire from his post at Hogwarts. No one knows where he is. No one has been able to contact him.  
These three answers, in combination, form, for her, the unholy trifecta of grief, and darken her soul like never before, banishing her to a remote castle on the edge of her own mind’s continent, where cold winds blow, and the sun never shines.  
One: She’d wished Hell on Eloise for taking her away from Fynn, and now it has found her.  
Two: She’d hoped in vain that Fynn and Draco would be saved, but now there is no word of their state. They could be anywhere, being subjected to anything, and it is her fault without question. She should have been stronger. She should have suspected Eloise sooner.  
Three: Remus deserves a beautiful world, and she doesn’t know why he thinks differently. She hates the world for hating him when he already hates himself enough. She wishes she didn’t add to that hatred, too, but she knows she does so, anyway, inadvertently. She should have told him what she knew about him while she could. But now she might never have another chance.  
The blackness is cold and silent and kind, because it requires nothing of her.  
She fills her dark inner castle like air, itself.  
She recedes into it.   
She is blind again.  
She has no words for anyone, and no reactions for the faces whose colors are slowly leached away, leaving the world around her in greyscale, all words coming to her as though from underwater.  
But still, she knows that if she were to open her mouth, she would be all too capable of speaking. So she makes sure that her lips remained sealed and her thoughts locked tightly in a small, dark box. Anything might surface, otherwise. Better to be still. Better to be quiet. Better to hide in the cold, in the numbness—not to hurt anyone else, and not to be hurt any more than she already has been.  
Nothingness. Nothingness is bliss.  
___________________________________________________________________  
Molly Weasley elects to sit with Alice through the nights, when she is asleep, easing herself down into the silent rocking chair in the corner of the room, watching over the girl like a sentinel, though exhausted, herself. Tonight, the woman sits as she has for many nights before, the chair still beneath her body, the cold white light of the full moon outside, filling the room, and casting sharp shadows on the floor.  
Usually, Molly is calm with a sleeping house around her, her family content after a long Summer day, resting up for the next one, which mother nature is hard at work preparing, outdoors. But these past nights have taken a toll on the woman, and tonight, in particular, is the worst, yet. Her hair has lost its spunk, and her motherly form has become worryingly diminished, and less healthy, along with an unintentional loss of weight. And this physical state only hints mildly at the truth of her harried soul, within.  
The girl—who now lays, in a frightfully sound sleep, on her back on the bed, the cold moonlight turning her face cruel and thin—has, since learning of the lack of news from Fynn and Draco, and the imprisonment of the maid who had helped her escape, receded so far into herself that she seems like a corpse.  
Ironically, it is at night—when her subconscious is most unguarded, and nightmares possess her diminished body—that she seems most alive.  
The girl’s distress has rubbed off on Molly, in a way that hasn’t seemed to rub off on her husband, though an unusual air of disturbance lingers around him, too—lingers around everyone in the house.  
The woman had known Lucius Malfoy in her own Hogwarts days, and though he’d been insufferable and cruelly superior, she’d never suspected him of being capable of inflicting this level of physical evil on another person. Molly knows that she should never have expected anything different, especially after the role Lucius had played in the first Wizarding War. But there is something in her as a mother, and as a being, in herself, which always compels her to see the best in others… until it is too late.  
What’s worse, she thinks, is that now, she has started to doubt Dumbledore himself, who had, in his own way, allowed it to happen. She wants to trust him, too, but now that such events have passed, she has a hard time doing so, and feels a great moral struggle, and conflict of long-existing—but now challenged—beliefs inside of her.  
For now, though, Molly Weasley distracts herself from her own inner turmoil, by monitoring the sleeping girl, watching her like a bird from across the room, carefully counting the rises and falls of her chest beneath the thin layer of sheets.  
Tonight, there are no nightmares, no whimpers, no writhing. But Molly is on edge, doubting that Alice will make it through the night with her sleep undisturbed. That would be a record, and the woman is tired of optimism, when it comes to such things.  
Mrs. Weasley believes that the storm has finally arrived when the girl turns over slightly just after midnight, her body moving of its own volition, as though possessed by something not of her own self—but not violently. She simply turns from her back onto her side, and her lips murmur something softly.  
Molly tenses, remembering the nights passed, in which the girl’s nightmare-possessed tantrums had ranged in intensity form a series of aggravated cries, to a fit of terrifying thrashing, in which she’d scratched her face badly, and almost taken her own eye out—before Harry had finally sprinted in from the other room, and forced her to wake up.  
But no such terrors arrive.  
Molly watches quietly, holding her breath as Alice goes to sleep again. Just minutes later, she stirs once more, and speaks, still softly, but with more definition in the sound. Molly leans closer from across the room, and after pricking her ears, she makes out what the girl is saying. She hears—or at least thinks that she hears—“Remus…”  
The full moon suddenly takes on new character outside the window, in the dark cloud-streaked sky. Molly tenses, thinking that she hears something calling, something howling, outside in the nearby woods… and a chill trickles down her spine, though she knows it’s impossible.  
It’s doubtless that Molly is hearing things, that Alice hadn’t said Remus Lupin’s name at all. Perhaps, something about the full moon is working curses on the woman’s subconscious, or something about her lack of sleep. Perhaps, this is only a manifestation of her recent worries—she’s being haunted by memories of the Order of the Phoenix. That wouldn’t be out of the ordinary at this time of night, when anxieties tend to resurface from years in the past.  
But after another few minutes, Alice speaks again, and the name comes from her lips even more clearly than before—indeed, the girl is asking for Remus Lupin, unwittingly, in her sleep. There’s something ghostly but pure in Alice’s dreaming voice, and Molly is suddenly sure that something in the girl’s subconscious is deliberately reaching out to her—Molly—in hopes that she might answer a buried plea that Alice, while awake, would never make aloud.  
Thus prompted, the woman jumps at being given a task, at being even the vaguest sign of what must be done. And she decides at once that she will contact Remus by owl. She knows how slim the odds are, but something about this strange happening tells her that the man will listen to the words she writes, if Errol does, indeed, succeed in finding him. Errol, Molly knows, is an old owl—sometimes confused, sometimes silly, nearly blind—but he is a good one, nonetheless, with a strong internal compass, and the most loyalty of any bird she’s ever known. If any owl can find Remus, wherever he’s been hiding himself away, it is Errol.  
Quietly, Molly Weasley stands from the rocking chair, opening the little parchment drawer of the writing desk by the window. And, by the full light of the beacon-like moon, she sets herself to quilling a letter to a very old friend.  
____________________________________________________________________  
A week later, Remus Lupin apparates into the field behind the Burrow with a muted crack that disturbs the blustery late morning, if but for a moment.  
The field is dominated entirely by Queen Anne’s Lace flowers, which toss and whisper in the light wind, and the wizard crouches slightly to pluck a few, until he has a small bouquet in hand, threatening to quickly become limp under the sun. Remus stands up again and, surveying the picturesque, cloudy sky, tucks his hair behind his ears, and settles one hand in the pocket of his tweed jacket, carrying his small suitcase and the flowers in the other.  
He’d been hiding away in the small garret room of a Wizarding pub in Amsterdam, when the Weasleys’ trusty owl Errol had found him, just two days after his latest transformation. He’d been reluctant to read the letter, recognizing Molly Weasley’s penmanship on the envelope, and fearing that to read it would be to commit himself ahead of time to whatever it was she might ask of him. But upon reading the message within, he’d known that it was necessary for him to reach the Burrow as soon as possible. And there was a part of him that had smiled quietly at the thought of seeing Alice again, at last.  
Now, as he walks through the field toward the odd house, his gladness at the prospect of seeing his young companion again makes his heart happy—for even he is not too daft to notice when he has been alone for rather too long. But, along with it, springs a new feeling—one of uncertainty.  
Of course, she will not be the same as she had been at Arabella Figg’s house on Privet Drive, or in Hogwarts that summer before Harry’s third year. Surely, she will be different now, even, than she had been over the winter holidays. And it wouldn’t be beyond reason for her to find extreme fault with Remus, after his failure to protect her from Lucius Malfoy; his failure to stand up to Dumbledore…  
But the ex-professor is soon jolted out of his thoughts by a faint buzzing sound overhead, which intensifies until—suddenly—Harry Potter himself touches down in the field just in front of him, dismounting from his Firebolt broomstick and grinning broadly at the sight of Lupin.   
“Professor!” greets the boy with a lilt of joy in his voice. Joy which had been long absent over the past school year—and is sometimes only reclaimable through flying.  
“Harry,” Remus says, smiling warmly, his exhaustion still showing in his eyes. But he opens his arms wide and receives the slightly sweaty Boy Who Lived in a tight embrace.  
From above comes a faint shout of alarm, and then a loud zipping noise, and both of them look up to see Ron, on his own broomstick, just barely avoiding the top of the house, swerving at the last moment. “Harry!” comes a faint cry as Ron loses control of the broom and it nearly spirals into the woods.  
“I’d better go get him, Professor,” Harry admits, smiling and already preparing to mount his Firebolt.  
“Of course. None of us would be served very well by a Ronald sandwich, now would we?” says Remus with a smile, patting his ex-pupil on the back and taking a cautious step back before waving him off in encouragement. With a loud whoosh, the boy takes off from the ground and speeds off in the direction of the woods, causing the older wizard to laugh aloud and shake his head, seeing so much of Sirius Black in his Godson.  
Promptly, however, his nostalgic smile is dampened. Molly Weasley, noticing his approach from across the field, has appeared in the back-doorway, and he sees her in his peripheral vision, looking over and offering a meager wave—which she returns—before looking down at the ground, watching his tattered leather shoes brush through the flowers as he walks the rest of the way to the house.  
“We’re very glad you came,” says Molly once he’s arrived at the doorstep, looking up at him from her squat height, and almost taking him into an embrace before deciding against it, not wanting to risk the tears that might result—and especially not in front of Arthur and Ginny, who are sitting at the kitchen table behind her, the youngest of her children humoring her father with a game of Wizard’s chess.  
“Remus!” calls Arthur happily, upon noticing the man in the doorway, looking up from the chessboard. “Pardon the state of the game, old chap. I’ve lost the master of the family to Harry Potter and Quidditch practice.”  
“Dad!” Ginny protests, cocking her head to one side and looking serious for a moment, before resolving her expression and smiling slightly. “Hello, Professor Lupin,” she says in greeting, trying to hide the slight wariness behind her eyes at the sight of the man and quite nearly succeeding.  
“Arthur, Ginny, it’s marvelous to see you both,” says Remus, stepping into the kitchen as Molly makes way for his entrance. “I would love to stay and watch, and perhaps I will in a bit, but…” He turns slightly to Mrs. Weasley, who nods hastily at him, understanding, and, noticing the bouquet of flowers in his hand, summons a vase from a nearby cupboard.  
“Aguamenti,” says Molly, filling the vase with the resulting stream of water from her wand, before handing it to Remus, who settles the bundle of stems into it, thanking the woman when she takes his suitcase from him.  
“Oh, yes, well, Alice has been hoping to see you, much more than we have,” says Arthur, letting his words hang in the air a moment before he cocks an eyebrow, sensing something awry. Ginny looks at her father pointedly and he flounders awkwardly for a moment before amending, “Well, you see, erm, I meant, she’s been looking forward to seeing you the most.”  
“I understand, Arthur,” says Remus kindly, the tired corners of his eyes crinkling slightly as he approaches the foot of the stairs. “I’ll be down again, directly. And, Ginny, I have no doubt that, by moving your queen to E5, you could challenge Ronald for his title as the ‘Master Chess Player of the Family.’” He winks at the girl conspiratorially, and Ginny smiles at him before examining the board and triumphantly making the suggested move.  
“She’s at the very top,” Molly calls quietly to the visitor, and Remus nods down to her before turning again, and smirking privately at the sound of Arthur’s protestations as Ginny Weasley wins the game.  
On his way up the stairs, carrying the vase of flowers against his sternum he has to stop on each landing to regain his strength—harder and harder to get back with every transformation. However, on one of the landings, the rhythm is broken by a sudden sound from a nearby doorway, and a shower of sparks as the door opens and a fiery object buzzes out onto the landing, remaining in the air for a moment before fizzing out and falling to the floor between his shoes.  
Remus has hardly overcome his surprise, when two tall, lanky boys appear in the doorway, identical faces taken over by identical expressions of shock as they look at the wizard on the landing, with their latest failed experiment on the floor before him.  
“Professor!” Fred and George stammer in unison.  
“We’re so sorry,” says George.  
“We didn’t know it was—” continues Fred.  
“—you,” they both finish.  
Remus smirks, gingerly picking up the object—rather like a muggle firecracker, but heavier, and giving off dangerous royal-blue smoke—and examining it histrionically. “Pray tell,” he says, “who did you think it was?”  
Identical grins of mischief appear on the twins’ faces. “We shouldn’t say, professor,” says George.  
“Well,” Remus declares jokingly, handing the object to Fred gingerly, “you two are safe for now, but I’ll have to have a word; with you later.”  
He looks between them slowly, and sets eyes pointedly on each of them as they calls them by their correct names. “Fred… George… Technically, I am your professor no longer. So—” he smiles his small smile “—you may rest easy: these summertime shenanigans won’t reach the Headmaster’s ears… probably.”  
“I’m George,” argues Fred, furrowing his eyebrows jovially and pointing at George. “He’s Fred.”  
Remus, not fooled, just smirks gently, uttering an appeasing “Mmm,” before bidding them goodbye-for-now and continuing on his way up the stairs to the uppermost room in the house.  
On the final landing, he undergoes a brief inner struggle as he tries to decide whether or not to knock before he enters the room. The door is already standing ajar, and he knows the girl is likely sleeping, and he doesn’t want to wake her. So, he decides against knocking and steps in carefully, the door quietly creaking as he crosses over the threshold.  
But Alice is awake, and has been all morning long. Upon his entrance into the room, her head moves against her pillow, and she looks over at him, something in her eyes both brightening and cowering at the sight of him after so many months.   
“Sorry,” says Remus after a moment, still standing in the doorway, startled by how thin and drained she has become; and how small and weak she looks laying on the bed, made a waif by the sunlight. “I didn’t know if I should knock.”  
“I saw you coming,” says Alice, her voice tired and slightly hoarse, but lined with a contentment that sets him at ease. She moves her eyes meaningfully toward the window, which looks out over the field in the back of the Burrow. “Harry and Ron have been practicing out there, trying to… they don’t want me to feel alone. I noticed you when Harry touched down.”  
Alice trails off slightly, slowly, watching the corners of his mouth move upward slightly. She wants to come out, wants to simply say to him: You wouldn’t believe how glad I am to see you. But something in the idea of the words rings false. Some tiny part of her, amidst the ocean of other churning emotions, hates that he has come here, for some unexplainable reason.  
Remus approaches the rocking chair, which has been pulled up to her bedside, setting the vase of Queen Anne’s Lace down on her bedside table before taking a seat.  
“I’m sensing a motif,” she says, noting the flowers, remembering the other bouquets in their past. Weakly, she smiles. But it’s still a smile. The first one she’s tried to coax onto her face in months upon months—and reasonably successful, considering.  
It’s a wonderful thought, despite its slight morbidity: she hopes that when she dies—for she is sure that day will come soon—he will bring her flowers and set them in her hands before she is lowered into the ground.  
Remus senses something wrong, as though the girl’s thoughts have somehow echoed in his own subconscious, and suddenly tries to cover up the sensation of badness, his voice rambling on ahead of his mind before he’s paused to form a line of conversation. “You’re looking glum,” he hears himself say to her. “Are you feeling sick? I hope not—I’ve found the most delicious chocolate from the Netherlands. Would you like to try some?”  
A heartbeat later, he realizes he’s been babbling. Of course she’s glum. Of course she’s feeling sick. And suddenly he realizes that offering her chocolate is, in a way, disgusting—like some compensation he doesn’t deserve to give her, that she would (or at least should) detest accepting, though he knows she would never deny the offer.  
As he’d feared, in the next moment, Alice nods her head “yes” with difficulty in answer to his proposition. Without another option, he hands her the bar of chocolate from his tweed pocket. She reaches out a feeble hand to accept it, and holds it in front of her face for a moment, inhaling the aroma through the paper packaging. But then, something in her face falls, and she admits, “I can’t eat it,” giving it back to him.  
As he puts it back in his pocket, he really looks at her for the first time, observing the light on her face, and just how sunken she looks. He shudders inwardly to think what horrors are contained within her small, fading body, after more months of trauma at the hands of Lucius, since he’d last seen her at Hogwarts—not to mention the more recent period of upheaval and isolation she’d suffered through alone.  
He shifts in the rocking chair, making the legs creak slightly, in order to avoid expressing physical revulsion at the idea of just how ill she must feel, inside.  
Alice senses his feelings, though, and her face falls in stages. Something about him there, looking at her, makes her feel terrible all of a sudden. She’d wanted, for so long, to have Remus by her side. But now, she has realized all at once that she detests herself, and wishes she were different—a feeling that makes his presence unbearable.  
“Why are you here?” she says, her voice deep and packed with tears.  
“For you,” Remus says at length, sensing the change, his eyes darkening sadly.  
“You shouldn’t…” starts the girl, shaking her head at herself. “Just… you should go.”  
He looks at her for a moment, before making a decision. Normally, he might have left the moment he requested he do so. But something about the situation requires that he stay. “I will not ‘just go,’” he says, reaching for her hand and taking it gently in his, trying and failing to ignore the coldness of her skin.  
She inhales sharply, her skin rejecting the sensation of physical touch. “Don’t.” She shudders as she exhales, and tries to amend her actions. “I’m sorry,” she says, her eyes overcome by a faraway look. And though he’s taken his hand away, sensing her distress, she suddenly reaches for it again, taking hold of his wrist with surprising firmness given the weakness of her fingers. “Please,” she says desperately, looking into his eyes with her agonized, washed-out ones, her entire body shifting suddenly and straining towards him—as though she’s being subjected to a Cruciatus curse from within.  
“You’re hurting me,” Alice says, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes. “Why are you hurting me?”  
She knows this is unfair, and hates herself for saying it, but she hadn’t been able to help it. She knows just what is causing her pain—the sudden understanding that Remus Lupin does not love her. And the even more poignant understanding that she loves him more than ever, despite the face.   
Remus, overcome by the pain emanating sharply from him and cutting into his own heart, wants to cry. He feels his magic curling dangerously towards murderous thoughts against Lucius Malfoy, seeing the girl’s frayed nerves playing out so painfully. “Alice,” he says, his voice rough but warm. “I want to care for you.”  
But this is too much, and his heart skips a beat as Alice’s face crumbles. “Don’t—” she pleads again, suddenly taking her hand away, as though his skin had emitted an electric shock. Tears fall rapidly from her eyes, and she turns her head away from him, hiding against the pillow as her weak form is wracked with sobs.  
He has no idea what to do.  
She tells him she’s sorry, though he doesn’t know why. She apologizes for her behavior and tells him he has to go downstairs, though “nothing” is “his fault,” et cetera.  
“I’m sorry,” he says after a moment, almost startled to his feet, and turns away, embarrassed for his intrusion, and feeling more villainous than he ever has felt before, abashed and ashamed for expecting anything different after he’d abandoned her, after he’d allowed Dumbledore to have his way with the situation, when there was so much at stake.  
Remus glances at her once more before taking his leave of the room and going out onto the landing, where he pauses for a long time, the chair still rocking, abandoned, in the room behind him.  
____________________________________________________________________________________________  
Despite the difficult start, it is Remus’s presence in the Burrow that finally motivates Alice to stand up, and work her way back into life beyond the confines of the house’s uppermost room. She makes the decision the next day, when Mrs. Weasley brings in the morning sustenance potions, and she confesses her sudden understanding that now is the time to start again. Whatever that means.  
It takes her a great deal of time. She has to try harder than she’s tried at anything else in her life—even at controlling her magic in the very beginning—to stand up from the bed, and to walk. She has lost much weight… too much… and she grows dizzy easily, after having not been up or walking about for months on end. She feels, sometimes, like she is on the verge of death, and knows that the only reason she is alive at all is because she’s been kept alive by various spells and potions over the course of her depression. Otherwise, she surely would have wasted away. And though there have been moments when she’s whished that her body would get on with it, and that she would meet her end, Remus’s arrival has suddenly banished such thoughts.  
Over the course of a few hours, walking around the perimeter of the room, intermittently leading on Harry, Fred or George, depending, she works up enough strength and determination to take on the challenge of the stairs.  
Even more than the encouragement Remus’s presence, in itself, has added to her situation, his reintroduction into her reality has also made her remember the responsibility she has to Fynn and Draco, as long as she is alive. The responsibility which she’d tried to suppress in the past months, when getting back to them had seemed so hopeless. But now, it has returned to her heart and mind with full force.  
And she intends to live. At least until she gets the chance to amend what she did wrong—to rescue them form that terrible Manor, where they are still kept captive.  
So, with Fred on her one side, and George on the other, she succeeds in walking down all six flights of stairs, into the kitchen, and out into the stunning daylight of the swaying, flowery field.  
And thus, her life—or the parts of it which are salvageable—resumes.  
__________________________________________________  
The beginning is slow, as all beginnings are.  
Her feelings for Remus have been perpetuated by his actual presence, and they hit her like a train, in a sense, making it difficult for her to feel confident that he can’t see directly through her façade. As a result, for a number of days at the outset, she avoids him, not wanting to risk such shame.  
Her intentions in being up and about become quickly known, but her goal of immediately reaching Fynn and Draco is just as quickly shot down. And for good reason she understands: she can barely walk on her own, still cannot eat, not to mention how difficult a mission to—in essence—kidnap two pureblood minors from one Lucius Malfoy, one of the most powerful wizard in the Ministry, would be, on its own, without her additional debilitated state.  
Mr. Weasley falls to asking her, almost habitually, about muggle objects, in hopes that talking about such things might distract her. And though at first, Alice finds his questionings burdensome, she soon discovers that the distraction is beneficial.  
Especially when the nightmares arrive.  
The worst of them make her wake up screaming in the middle of the night, thinking she’s somewhere else, and thrashing about so violently that it takes a brave soul—sometimes Harry, but more often, now, Remus—to get close enough to take hold of her wrists, and remind her where she is. Harry has been having troubling dreams in the nights, too, though he seems to have learned to keep them under control, and private enough, on his own. When the two of them find themselves alone in a room or apart from the others in the field, Harry tells her about the flashing pain in his scar that has started to plague his nights, and the disturbing dreams that have begun to gain clarity by the night.  
Sometimes, both of them are so afraid to go to sleep, that she’ll creep out of the guest room, and Harry will creep out of Ron’s room, and they’ll meet halfway at the landing outside of Percy’s unoccupied room, whispering to each other over candlelight, finding refuge in sleeplessness, though they always regret not resting the day after, and the nightmares are always worse the next time they do end up sleeping.  
The dreams are—when she doesn’t shout upon waking from them—a relatively private affair, and with time, she comes to manage them as Harry has learned to, waking up with a quiet whimper or a jolt and a gasp that doesn’t wake anyone else, rather than an earsplitting scream of terror. So, when she brings up the contents of a nightmare over the breakfast table one morning, everyone listens closely, knowing what she has to say to be of great import.  
“There was this symbol,” she says, choosing her words carefully, and keeping her eyes peeled open, knowing that if she blinks, she’ll be thrust into the past, and lose her control and concentration. “That I remember from somewhere, though I don’t know where.” (This is a lie. She’d seen it in her dream, just as it had been on the underside of Lucius Malfoy’s forearm, when his sleeve had been pushed up in her struggle.) “A skull. With a snake coming out of its mouth. The snake, its body is in a knot, I think.”  
Remus pales in his seat across the table from her, knowing that for her to see this symbol would mean that she’d seen it on Lucius’s forearm. Quickly, he puts the pieces together—the precise pieces she’d wanted to hide—and sets his utensils down on his plate, his appetite gone. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley also grow quiet suddenly, but the Weasley children and Harry perk up slightly, waiting for an explanation.  
“I’m sorry,” says Alice after a long moment, not having meant to disrupt breakfast in such a way.  
But Remus is the one to interject, shaking his head. “It’s quite alright,” he says, gathering himself, and looking to Mr. and Mrs. Weasley for permission before going on. “Alice, you’ve just described the Dark Mark. It was a kind of symbol… a branding method… that He Who Must Not Be Named used among his closest, most loyal followers. As I understand it, during the war, the mark could also be used to summon this ‘inner circle,’ of those most allegiant at the Dark Lord’s whim.”  
Alice feels her stomach roil. She glances across the table toward Harry, who looks at her out of the corner of his eye, a dose of fear and concern in the straight line of his mouth.  
“These biscuits are perfection, Molly,” says Arthur at length. And, in choppy stages, they all—with the notable exception of Alice, who sits with an empty plate before her—fall back to eating.  
____________________________________________________________________  
At mealtimes, she sits at the table, but never partakes in the food.  
It looks delicious, and she hates that she might offend Mrs. Weasley by not eating it, but she knows that the moment she smells the aroma of the food in a way that entails consuming it, she begins to feel ill, as though she might be sick any second. So she remains quiet from the beginning of the meal to the end, when it is cleared, her hands clasped in her lap under the table, the empty plate (which Mrs. Weasley unfailingly places before her, in hopes that she’ll decide to eat of her own will) sitting judgmentally in front of her.  
This morning, Harry has been eyeing the empty plate consistently throughout breakfast.  
Alice tries to ignore him, slightly unnerved by his attention, which is usually directed at his own full plate during mealtimes. But she can’t help feeling anxious when his eyes glide pointedly to her plate for the umpteenth time. And her stomach seems to flip over when Harry reaches across the table and sets a savory scone on her plate—the movement largely unnoticed, as a boisterous conversation has sucked in everyone else at the table.  
“You should try to eat something,” Harry says to her, under the babble of the others.  
Alice leans forward slightly, feeling dizzy, hoping self-defense will be easy in this instance as she protests, “Harry, I’ll be sick.”  
Harry, though, shrugs his shoulders, saying nonchalantly, “I refuse to eat until you do,” and Alice stares back at him in sharp shock, because it’s the most audacious yet wise thing he possibly could have said.  
She can see in his eyes that he knows just what he’s doing to her. He knows what it feels like to be malnourished, to be deprived of food and then to have altogether too much food suddenly appear. He’d experienced that during the first welcome feast at Hogwarts, after years of near-starvation at the hands of the Dursleys. But Harry doesn’t know what it means to be repulsed by a meal. Throughout his first eleven years, a heaping plate of food had been a good dream—not a nightmare, as it has become for Alice.  
Knowing herself, she shakes her head at him. “Harry, thank you, but this is silly. I can’t—”   
“Alice,” Harry says, raising his voice and his eyebrows, giving the girl a physical start in her chair. He grits his teeth, motions to the scone on her plate, and demands, “Just a bite,” his eyes unyielding.  
Though silly, her first instinct is to cry. She can feel the tears pricking threateningly at the corners of her vision, startled by her friend’s sudden change in demeanor, but knowing he’s right, and feeling guilty for having incited such drama over breakfast. Everyone else at the table has fallen silent now, and only the faint “moo” of the cow, Polly, can be heard in the distance. Alice looks down at her plate to collect herself, before resuming her staring match with Harry.  
Molly looks like she’s preparing to object, but Harry shoots her a look that quickly deters her. Alice continues to look back at the boy blankly. “I refuse to eat until you do,” he repeats, pushing his plate forward, away from his body. He knows she can’t refuse if he decides to starve himself along with her, but she remains still, hoping he might be insincere.  
Alice looks towards Remus for assurance, hoping that he might side with her—but she knows she should have known better, because barely an instant later, Remus himself pushes his plate forward, siding with Harry, and promptly, everyone else at the table follows suit.  
Needless to say, her resolve doesn’t last long.  
With much difficulty, she cuts into a small piece of the scone with the tines of her fork, and lifts the tiny sliver into her mouth. It takes her a full minute to chew and swallow it, and for a moment she almost smiles with pride—it feels as though she’s just consumed a whole meal. But when she looks back down at her plate and sees the tiny bite she’d just taken in actuality, her stomach drops.  
“At least it was something,” Ginny asserts from beside Alice, cutting through the silence as she comes to the older girl’s defense.  
Ginny, too, is the first to pull her own plate back towards her and continue with her own meal, causing the others to slowly do the same. After all, it is the first solid food Alice has eaten in months. And she’s lucky for not throwing it up.  
________________________________________________________  
In the mornings, Alice and Remus make a habit of waking together, earlier than the others, and taking quiet walks in the woods by the stream, only realizing in the later morning when they come back to the house for breakfast (which Alice can now, finally, eat) along with the rest of the boisterous occupants of the house, that they’d done it all in complete silence. Speaking, it seems, is unnecessary. Both enjoy the quiet, and noise needn’t be forced on one another.  
As the 18th of August—the day of the Quidditch World Cup—approaches, the mood around the house becomes electric.  
“We need another birthday!” Fred exclaims on the fifteenth, rubbing his belly miserably. Ginny’s birthday had been on the eleventh, and the Weasley family is notorious on its own for running out of birthday cake at record speed—not to mention adding three guests to help them along.  
“Isn’t Percy’s the twenty-second?” says Alice, narrowing her eyes at the clock on the wall, which marks the approaching goings-on in the household.  
“But that’s a whole seven days away!” exclaims Ron, coming down the stairs and into the kitchen, sitting down disappointedly at the table across from his twin brothers.  
“Alice,” say Fred and George in unison, crossing their fingers. “When’s yours?”  
“You’re out of luck,” says the girl with a small smirk, enjoying the twins’ way of speaking. “The seventeenth of March.”  
But rather than the expected groans of disappointment and protestation, she is met with a beat of silence, and then an explosion of excitement across the three brothers’ faces.  
“You’re—” begins Fred.  
“—Joking!” he and George finish together.  
Ron stands up from his chair, impassioned, grinning at her. “Saint Patty’s Baby…” he says dreamily. “Alice, you’re a savior.”  
“Dad!” George and Fred shout as Arthur comes down the stairs, dressed for a day at the Ministry, followed shortly by Remus. “It’s not too late to get another ticket to The Cup?”  
“I don’t see why not,” Arthur says, his eyebrows stitched together. “Why?”  
“Alice’s birthday is March seventeenth—” says Ron. “She’s got the luck of the Irish! We have to bring her, Dad! For the good of the team!”  
“I don’t know—” Alice interjects, finally putting the pieces together—the Weasleys are rooting for the Irish team—and wishing she’d kept her mouth shut.  
“Please, Alice!” begs Ron, turning to her and getting down on his knees. “You have to! Please?”  
“This is tremendous news!” bellows Mr. Weasley, his eyes brightening. “Of course it’s not too late! And in that case, I can probably get a second for you, too, Remus.”  
“Well…” says Remus, his hands in his pockets, deterred by the idea of a large crowd, and the proximity of the full moon—just three days after the night of the game. But the look in Alice’s eyes makes him change his mind. “I think I’d love to accompany you all,” he manages.  
“Alice?” Fred and George say in unison, looking at her pointedly, their eyes eager and hopeful.  
She looks around at all of them, before finally breaking the tension with a sigh. “I suppose I’ll go,” she says.   
She can’t help but smile when the twins jump up from their chairs in Joy, and Ron’s mouth crashes into the back of her hand in a clumsy, exuberant kiss of gratitude.  
“Good sports, you two,” says Mr. Weasley to her and Remus on his way out the front door.  
At the next private moment, Alice is sure to thank Remus for agreeing to go along, for her sake. “Of course,” he says. “I wouldn’t dream of abandoning a fellow introvert, so,” his eyes shining down at her. And she smiles at him, before forcing herself to look away.  
________________________________________________________  
The two extra tickets are easily obtained, and in the early morning on the day of the World Cup, when Alice and Remus are on their way back to the Burrow after their daily stroll, Hermione arrives to join them all for the festivities.  
The entire Weasley clan (with the exception of Mrs. Weasley who has elected to remain home) and Harry, is up and out of bed faster than Alice has ever seen them manage before. And after a speedy breakfast, with bags packed and slung over their shoulders, Fred and George, Harry, Ron, Mr. Weasley, Hermione, Ginny, and Remus and herself have begun a short trek into the golden-lit woods. Birds chirp in the early-morning light, the moss on the giant trees lit up by the yellow sunlight, white butterflies fluttering among the upper branches overhead.  
Before too long, they come to a tree, under which a short man in a tweed Irish cap and clutching a walking stick, and his son—Fred, George and Alice’s age—have been waiting to meet them. They introduce themselves as Amos and Cedric Diggory, and quickly induct themselves into the group as they continue on through the woods, towards some destination which Mr. Weasley refuses to disclose.  
Alice is swept into Fred and George’s talk with Cedric—they know each other from school, being in the same year, although Cedric is in the Hufflepuff house. Fred and George quickly commence to introduce him and Alice to each other, but she has to excuse herself, noticing that Harry has become caught up with Amos, who has clearly put a finger on his identity as Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived.  
Harry looks at her gratefully when he hurries back to ‘rescue’ him, in a sense, and after briefly introducing herself to Amos, Arthur calls back to the other man, who hurries ahead to join Arthur and Remus in the front of the group.  
As they continue to walk through the woods, as though on a tight schedule, Alice asks Harry if he’s alright—he’s seemed trouble since he’d woken up. “I had this dream…” he starts, at length. But there’s no time to talk further, before the woods promptly thins, and they climb up a little hillock, where an old and tattered leather boot is waiting.  
“Gather round and hold on,” Mr. Weasley instructs, over the various calls of “What is it?” from the younger witches and wizards.  
“A portkey!” says Hermione to the others.  
“No time to explain,” booms Arthur jovially, “Gather round, quick,” as the others promptly obey his instructions, laying down on the dewy grass the better to get a good hold on the boot.  
Almost the moment after everyone does so, the boot begins to vibrate with an extreme power, and suddenly they are lifted entirely off the ground, spinning violently, and are gone from the hillock with a snap of bright light that startles a number of birds from the nearby woods.  
It’s a bumpy landing, on a similar hill elsewhere, for all but Mr. Weasley, Amos, Cedric and Remus, who come down quite easily from the sky, making their way to the ground with an elegance reserved for dancers in a ballet. Quickly, the youngsters pick themselves, up, brushing the grass off their clothes.  
“Alright?” asks Remus, giving Alice a hand up from the ground, noting the way she keeps her elbow pinned to her side.  
“I had a bit of a roll,” she explains, flushed from the experience and recovering her footing as her dizziness slowly evaporates. “I’m fine, thanks.” She thinks she feels an electric shock of sorts from his hand, and wishes he wouldn’t touch her, though she also wishes to be embraced by him, and never let go… Promptly, though, he makes the choice for her, and lets go of her arm, still standing painfully close, but in the very least, the strange—surely one-sided—electric pulse is gone.  
Together, all eleven of them work their way over the hill, a rush of cool breeze blowing their hair back as they reach the top, and a hum of excitement rising at the sight of the festival grounds.   
Hundreds of tents are pitched in preparation for the event, and the top of the Quidditch pitch stands visible just over the next, taller hill. Shouts of celebration rise from the tents and grow deafening as they descend into the joyful fray of it all—people on broomsticks flying through the air overhead, flags flying everywhere, and all sorts of people winding through the grassy field between myriad tents.  
The Weasleys’ own tiny canvas tent opens into an unbelievably cavernous interior, oriental colors adorning the walls, tapestries and rugs, and they all quickly spread out to fill the space, Ron already making a beeline to the kitchen area. Alice is still sensitive to crowds, and had never imagined that so many people could fill one field—even one so large. But she is happy, and feeds off the others’ enthusiasm, not allowing herself to get drained too quickly. Harry is clearly taking the same approach—it seems he’s trying to forget about the dream he’d had, and succeeding admirably.  
So, Alice chips away at her own troubles, dancing and singing with Ginny and Hermione, and subjecting herself to the role of guinea pig for some of Fred and George’s latest tricks.  
She has lost herself in the most glorious fashion by the time night rolls around, and they start on their way towards the Quidditch pitch, bedecked in their Ireland gear, Fred and George both taking one of her arms, hoisting her fists upward, proclaiming far and wide her birth day, and singing a chant of their own devising for luck. Though tiring, the long climb up the stands barely gets to her, for all of the peculiar and exciting sights along the way. They witness a number of squabbles between fans of Bulgaria and Ireland on their way up the many flights of stairs, and interesting foreigners wearing tall, conciliar hats with sashes hanging from the tips and carrying thin blue snakes around their shoulders, captivate their attention.  
“Blimey, dad, how far up are we?” calls Ron over the roar of the people all around them, after they’ve been climbing for nearly half an hour. Alice, too, wonders the same—looking over the edge of the stairs now and down towards the field below the Quidditch pitch is, by now, an experience that makes her heart jump up into her throat—this is the highest she has ever been above the ground.  
“Well, put it this way,” comes a voice from below. A freezing cold suddenly descends over Alice’s entire body, and she finds herself paralyzed around her heart, which beats faster and faster. Lucius Malfoy, the silver serpents’ head at the top of his cane clasped firmly in his black-gloved hand, appears just below them, Draco at his side, their white hair made ghostly by the bright lights coming from the pitch. “If it rains… you’ll be the first to know.”  
And then Draco, in his terribly good imitation of his father: “Father and I are in the Minister’s box. On personal invitation of Cornelius Fudge himself—”  
But Alice has stopped listening, her ears drowned in a traumatized static that buzzes in her head and perpetuates her paralysis. Remus takes action, wrapping one arm around her side and ushering her quickly up the stairs to the next landing, shielded by the Weasley family, effectively avoiding being spotted by the two Malfoys. “Don’t look,” he instructs her, moving quickly upward while Arthur begins to fend off the two white-haired aristocrats.   
“Hold onto me,” Alice hears herself plead, somehow finding her voice. But still, once they’ve reached the next level after making their dizzy way up the steep stairs, she nearly collapses, trembling as her hands grasp onto the tweed fabric of the wizard’s jacket. Her mind is moving too quickly to allow her to burst into tears, but rather, her face grows heated, and she looks back towards the stairwell, both lurching into Remus and straining away from him.  
Something in her mind and in her instinct hates the show of fear she’s just demonstrated—feels terrible that she didn’t somehow punish or harm Lucius, that she didn’t save Draco on the spot. Instead, she’d cowered and run away. Her mind races to put her thoughts in order, but before she has a chance to argue with herself further, Remus is leaning down the better to look directly into her eyes, and gripping her shoulders tightly, shaking her gently.  
“Alice. Alice. Are you here with me? Be here with me,” he’s saying.  
“I’m here. I’m here,” she forces herself to respond, nodding her head up and down, though her eyes are still as big as saucers.  
“Don’t let him take you away again,” Remus says firmly, his eyes warm but insistent.  
“Draco…” she says, shaking her head back and forth, her heart thrumming faster. “Draco.” He’d been right there. Right there. Just an arm’s length away. She can feel Remus’s hands against her shoulders, can feel her lungs emptying of breath.  
“We’ll find Draco later,” Remus says. “For now—”  
But the Weasleys have come up the stairs, all of them with bad words to say of both Malfoys, hissing them under their breath or saying them louder, in hopes that Lucius might overhear them. Harry hurries to Alice and takes her arm, looking at her reassuringly, and she takes the pointed look Remus gives her as encouragement. Slowly, she gets her breath back, and stands up straighter, determined to scrape herself up and make it through the match without spoiling the fun for the others, if it’s the second-to-last thing she does. The last, of course, being to find Draco at the next possible moment.  
_____________________________________________________  
The match itself turns out to be so exciting and intense, that she nearly forgets about the altercation in the stairwell—though in the back of her mind, throughout, lingers the new priority of locating Draco by any means necessary.   
She’s surprised, regardless, how much she gets into watching the match, and she is so full of adrenaline by the end, that she doesn’t even recoil one bit when Fred, in a knee-jerk reaction to Ireland’s sudden win, plants a smacking kiss on her cheek, something about her having the luck of the Irish loudly in her ear, and almost sending himself over the edge of the balcony as he jumps up and down in extreme excitement.  
Back in the tent, they all join in singing and dancing, the sound from all the collective tents around them so intense that Hermione is driven to ask aloud, about how they manage to keep the sound from carrying to the surrounding muggle residences—but she is ignored by all. Food is shared in heartily, and Fred and George sneak a flask of whisky between them, Ginny and Ron stealing Alice into a spinning dance that leaves her dizzy. She almost spirals into Harry when she finally lets go, and has to take a moment of fresh air by the opening of the tent, resting her palms against her knees as she gets her balance back.  
Standing there, she sees the flaps of the tent doors rustle in the breeze—a breeze that carries something that jolts her out of her euphoria quite suddenly. She is the first to sense something wrong. Remus is a close second, standing up from a chair in the sitting area, and appearing at Alice’s side almost at the very moment she identifies something as awry. Then comes Mr. Weasley, and it is he who raises his voice above the celebratory singing.  
“Wait, wait, stop!” he interrupts, holding up his hands. They all grow quiet hearing the sounds outside, something discordant and not-quite-right about it, all of a sudden. “It’s not the Irish. We have to get going.”  
Almost within the instant, the joyful sounds surrounding them turn to cries of terror, and they hurry out of the tent, hit promptly by a blast of heat—many surrounding tents have been set aflame, and are blazing against the deep, whale-like blue of the night sky.  
“Death Eaters!” someone cries, intensifying the chaos of fleeing bodies, bumping into each other.  
Mr. Weasley tries to raise his voice above it all, issuing orders to stay together and get back to the Portkey, but Hermione is promptly swept away in the crowd, and their group, too, dissolves into the burning confusion.  
With her terror—for Alice is sure that Lucius numbers among the group of dark-cloaked, hissing and chanting Death Eaters that approach—also comes a sudden pang of survival instinct, like an injection straight into her heart.  
Draco. Draco. Draco.  
Her entire mind, body and soul chants out the name like an alarm. And without further consideration, she separates herself from the group, and runs off in the direction perpendicular to the path the Death Eaters are cutting through the tents, consumed by the angry, blowing flames. In the fray, she is pushed by the pulsing crowd into one of them, and her arm catches suddenly on fire. She hits the ground and rolls, unable to scream for the adrenaline racing through her, barely avoiding a volley of running feet. Quickly she stands, the flames extinguished, but the burn remaining, and severe from what she can tell. Curses and spells dart every which way overhead, and she turns around and around for a moment, recalibrating her inner compass as she crouches down.  
She continues running, paying no heed to her injuries, her hand gripping her wand tightly, her head turning every which way as she screams Draco’s name at the top of her lungs, straining to be heard over the deafening sounds of horror and the stampede of fleeing feet on every side, her throat shredded by the volume and the thick smoke from the fires.  
But before Alice can find Draco, Remus finds Alice. She catches sight of him out of the corner of her eye just as he notices her, from across a sea of moving heads, and suddenly turns and runs from him, knowing he will try to keep her from her mission. “No!” she screams, as he continues to pursue her, catching up with cruel ease, just inches from grabbing her. “I have to find Draco!”  
“Stop it, Alice!” Remus shouts, even louder than her own, smaller lungs could manage—but she doesn’t wither at the sound, standing her ground, backing up as he walks forward with the aim to overtake her. “He’s not here! He’s probably already gotten out! You have to listen to me!”  
He looks at her in such a way that suddenly makes her stop in her tracks, the orange shadows of the flames playing across his face, his scars black and angry cutting across his features. His eyes warm desperately as he extends his arm towards her, his fingertips just centimeters away from hers.  
“Take my hand, Alice!” he shouts over the fray. “Please!”  
And though she feels the ashes covering her face, though her entire body strains to run for Draco, though her mind would sooner have her collapse and die than obey Remus’s request, though tears are making tracks through the dirt covering her cheeks, she chooses to reach out and takes his hand—without reservation.  
_________________________________________________________________________________________  
Spells used in this chapter:   
1\. "Aguamenti,” a charm which conjures a jet of pure water from the tip of the wand.  
2\. The Cruciatus Curse – Referenced, one of the three unforgivable curses, the “torture” curse.  
The end of this chapter likely seemed quite abrupt, it certainly felt that way to me, but at this point I needed to keep it from becoming too long, and the final line also symbolizes that by now, Alice is head over heels for Remus, and knows there is no going back—even if she is not ready to tell him so yet.  
I’ve been burning up to write this chapter ever since I published chapter eight, but I really just didn’t have time! I wanted to publish it on Halloween night (which was also a full moon, which I thought was very cool), but I just couldn’t. Now I am much freer than I have been in past weeks, so I look forward to writing at least once a week! I’m so sorry for making you wait.  
Thank you for not plagiarizing my writing!  
On_Errand_Bad  
13,568 words  
Monday, 2 November 2020


	10. X | Summer's End

Note: 

Greetings, once again, my lovelies! 

I was having difficulties getting chapter nine to upload, so I know you guys had to wait a little longer for that one. I’m so, so sorry for the delay, and I hope this won’t happen again! 

Une-papillon-de-nuit, your review made my night! 

Just a quick personal note: I’m no longer really feeling Anya Taylor-Joy is quite right for Alice. I don’t really know what changed, and I know this might work for some, so I’ll keep her in the cast, but let me know if there’s an actress / model / well-known human being who you think works better, and I will add that person to the cast! 

Emotions, emotions, emotions in this chapter! I’m thinking this chapter probably won’t be quite as long as chapter nine—because, whoa, that was really, really long. My fingers were cramping up from typing that and my fingers NEVER cramp up. Anyway, the PLAN is for a shorter chapter today. But we’ll see. You know better than I. ;) 

Thank you, annaliz1981 and isaiahstrum, for following the story! Thanks, alphawolf665, for following and favoriting! 

Hope you enjoy, as always! 

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling the Utmost Venerable. 

Chapter Ten Totally Optional Cast (in order of appearance) 

Anya Taylor-Joy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Alice   
David Thewlis / Domhnall Gleeson . . . . . Remus Lupin   
Carey Mulligan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Inn Owner 

Colin Morgan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Theodore Nott   
Adrien Brody . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Logan Morelli   
Christian Bale . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Haden Nott   
Rosamund Pike . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Vanessa Nott 

Sir Michael Gambon . . . . . . . . . . . Albus Dumbledore   
Maggie Smith . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Minerva McGonagall 

Julie Walters . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Molly Weasley   
Mark Williams . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Arthur Weasley   
James Phelps . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Fred Weasley   
Oliver Phelps . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . George Weasley 

___________________________________________________________________________________ 

X | Summer’s End 

Godric’s Hollow / The Burrow / Diagon Alley   
Late August 1994 

She lands two meters in front of him, on her hands and knees, knowing instantly that she’s broken something. The near-midnight quiet of the small Wizarding town’s Main Street had been disrupted just a fraction of a second earlier, by the muted sound of their apparition. Now, it is disrupted again by a faint whimper from her lips as the heels of her hands make painful—almost crunching—contact with the cobblestone street. 

It’s a wonder she doesn’t collapse as a number of delicate bones in her wrists, and both her kneecaps, splinter into hundreds of tiny shards, as easily as glass. 

Remus, who has landed a few paces behind, on his feet but just barely, also suffers a slight injury, the great force with which he hits the ground causing the joints of his left leg to send a dangerous ripple effect of jarring up to his hip. He winces and holds in a groan, but takes no time to assess his own wounds before starting forward towards Alice, wincing again at the sight of her, which causes more pain to him than his own injury. 

“My deepest apologies,” he says, his voice quiet but carrying through the still night air, as he extends a hand toward her. 

“I think I need to lie down,” she says breathlessly, her body trembling. But the moment she tries to move at all—he can see her wrists have been severely damaged, along with her knees—she whimpers, and quickly restores herself to her previous position, paralyzed with pain. 

Remus, with difficulty, but without vocal protestation, lowers himself to the ground and kneels next to her, situating his weight on his undamaged leg as he draws his wand from his pocket. 

“Remus—” Alice objects, her voice high, though whispering, looking around suspiciously at the dark windows of the surrounding houses. 

“It’s alright. No muggles here,” Remus assures her. “Breathe in,” he instructs, and waits for her to do so before saying, “BrackiumEmendo,” under his breath, pointing his wand at one of her wrists. 

She inhales sharply in pain, and whimpers again as the bones fuse themselves back to their normal state. “I know,” says Remus, wincing and taking her by the shoulder to keep her from collapsing. “I’m sorry. Three more.” And as efficiently as he can, he carries out the same process for her other wrist, and both her knees. 

The wizard knows that apparating such a distance had been a risk, especially since the girl had already been injured, and he is just days away from his next transformation. But he’d chosen to take it, and even as it is, he knows they’re lucky just to have a few bruises, burns and breaks, rather than a more serious splinting. Nevertheless, he feels terrible that Alice has taken the brunt of the physical consequences. 

“Let me see your arm,” he says softly, after mending the fractures to her bones. Slowly, Alice manages to sit back on her haunches, extending her seriously burned arm in Remus’s direction, using her other arm to rub away the tears from her ash- and dirt-covered face. Remus hisses at the sight of the burn. “There’s little I can do for this without a cauldron. But, for now… Ferula,” he says, and a number of bandages quickly wind their way around the length of her burned forearm, tight enough that the pain is numbed, without inhibiting her circulation. “That will have to do,” says Remus, pressing down on the knee of his good leg as he stands up, and then reaches out to take her hand, pulling her to her feet, along with him. 

She half-stumbles, half-sinks into a brief embrace, once standing, and can’t help but inhale the smell of his jacket—like clean laundry, rain, and a rich, dark pine forest—for the shortest of seconds before reclaiming her own footing and stepping back, separating herself from him, at least in body. 

“Where are we?” she asks, looking around at the Tudor-style houses, their windows dark, but the glass panes shining in the light of the nearly-full moon that hovers—cold, white and gibbous—in the inky sky just above the town’s old bell tower. 

“Godric’s Hollow,” answers Remus, himself recognizing the place piece by piece. This hadn’t been precisely where he’d intended to end up—but at least they are somewhere he knows, even if that somewhere holds dark memories for him. 

Guiding his thoughts away from the Potters, he feels an unsubtle tingling in his head that reaffirms his thoughts from before: the apparition had been rough, on its own, but, truly, they are both lucky to be in one piece. “I really do apologize,” Remus says, aloud, voicing his thoughts to Alice, who has only now managed to fully get her breath back. “That was executed too hastily. And the risk to you was unacceptable.” 

He feels compelled to go on, but Alice cuts him off by shaking her head. “I’m fine—” she stars, before leaning over slightly, her own head suddenly overcome by dizziness as the weight of the past few hours truly hits her. From the hectic feeling she’d gotten from being around so many people, to seeing Lucius and Draco, to the overstimulation of the match itself, and the events afterward. 

Remus reaches out to her and holds her up with a hand around her waist. “I think I’m about to vomit,” Alice warns him, turning her head away. But after a number of deep breaths, the feeling abates, and she shakes her head at herself, embarrassed, but too exhausted and overwhelmed to really care about Remus’s opinion. 

“Do you know what happened to the others?” she asks him after another moment. The air has grown cold around them briefly, a faint whisper of the not-too-far-off Fall season trickling through the treetops. 

“Not yet,” the wizard admits. “But I do know it’s not safe for us to leave here, until morning. We ought to find an Inn… I think there’s one just at the end of this street. But first, for the walking. Ready? Easy does it…” 

After a few awkward steps, they finally start moving, Remus wincing silently from the pain in his leg, though he doesn’t express that anything is wrong to the girl, who is his primary concern. Eventually, though, once Alice has managed to separate herself from him, and walks at his side, she picks up on the unnatural twisting of his foot and knee as he walks, on her own. 

“Are you hurt, at all?” she says, knowingly. 

“I feel well, considering,” Remus lies. 

“You’re limping badly,” she argues gently. 

“It’s alright, really. Just ignore it—I’ll walk it off in a moment.” 

And something from the gentle but nearly sad way he says it, makes the girl wonder if it has something to do with the almost-fullness of the moon, hovering like a threatening, accusatory omen over the town. Perhaps, she thinks, this is a regular occurrence, though she’d never before seen him in such a state before his transformations. But, then again, she realizes she’s never seen him so close to the night of the full moon, itself—so she decides not to say anything more on the subject. 

As they make their way towards the inn at the end of the street, Alice almost loses herself again. She wants to start sobbing, to break down in stages and curl up on the cobblestones. Something in her is whispering evil things: that Draco has been hurt somehow, in the flames, by his father. But she pushes the thought from her mind, knowing that to think about that, right now, is to ensure failure. And something in her subconscious strengthens slightly, in pride at the first true logic it’s borne witness to in months: she cannot be a savior to Draco and Fynn until she has first saved herself. 

____________________________________________________________________ 

The bell tied to the inn door tinkles when they enter, somewhat startling the witch sitting behind the welcome desk, and not unnerving the silky white cat sitting next to her, whatsoever. A small bowl of mint humbugs sits on the corner of the desk, and a thin trail of smoke swirls steadily upward from the end of the muggle cigarette between the witch’s fingers. Something long-lost in Remus coils up in craving at the sight of it—he really wants one right now, suddenly; his mind, on instinct, tells him a drag or two would calm him down. But he hasn’t smoked in over a year, now, so he roughly shuns the thought. 

The white cat growls in warning at Remus, its hair raising, and he’s a bit longer than Alice in approaching the desk. 

The woman looks at Alice, her eyes growing in size: the girl’s jacket is burned partway off, and she looks like the most tired and battered being on earth—not to mention her dirty and tear-wrecked face. The woman suspiciously looks at the wizard behind the girl, still covered in shadows near the door, seemingly deterred by the cat, and then looks back at the young witch before her. 

“My dear, are you quite alright?” says the woman quietly, leaning forward towards the girl, heavily suspicious of the man. “I mean... is there something you want to tell me?” 

“I think... we want a room for the night,” says Alice, not confused by the woman’s demeanor, and proud of herself by so quickly changing the subject. 

Behind her, Remus steps forward cautiously and joins Alice, standing at her side and eyeing the white cat, who growls higher and hisses at him. The witch seated behind the desk looks at Remus carefully, and after a moment, something dawns across her face—the man knows that look; it’s a look of recognition. And, once the woman has stolen a look out the nearby window at the almost-full moon in the sky, it turns to a look of downright fear. 

“We’re full,” says the witch. 

Alice knows immediately what the woman is on about. She sees the way her eyes widen when she looks at Remus, and sees the hair raised along her white cat’s back—and she doesn’t know how they both know about his condition, but doesn’t care at the moment, a sadness fringed with anger scurrying into the forefront of her mind. 

The girl knows that Remus might go so far as to turn around and accept the denial, but she refuses to do that. So, making up her mind, she grows slightly taller before the innkeeper witch, and stands up for Remus, herself. 

“The sign on the door reads vacant,” says Alice, knowing she can’t reveal her knowledge of Remus’s condition, but still imbues her gaze with a heavy dose of force as she looks at the woman. “And I can see there are a number of rooms open.” She motions to the pegboard on the wall behind the witch, whose pegs hold multiple keys, indicating unused rooms. 

The witch looks about to make a slur and Remus, in a panic, looks meaningfully at her, saying “Please.” 

It’s clear to the witch that the girl doesn’t know about the man’s condition. And though she, herself, is frightened, especially by the near-fullness of the moon, her cat has calmed down slightly, and another instinct—the instinct to protect weary travelers (the poor, unprotected girl, in this case), the reason why she’d taken over the Inn in the first place—takes center stage in her heart. 

“Please,” Remus says again. 

Though still reluctant, the woman sitting behind the desk yields after a moment. “You’ll have to pay double,” she says, not liking the idea of having a werewolf in her Inn whatsoever but doubting that the young witch will leave if she doesn’t at least offer them a room, in some form. “Because... of the time of night.” 

Alice, again, recognizes the euphemism. “He won’t pay double,” she argues. 

“Alice--” Remus interjects. 

But she turns to him and says “Shh,” brazenly, effectively silencing him. For a moment embarrassment tingles in his throat, but then, he becomes impressed by her sudden mastery of the situation. Of course, he knows, she would probably feel just the same as the innkeeper if she were aware of his condition... and how dangerous it is to be with him so near to the full moon. Despite her rudeness, the witch behind the welcome desk has the right idea. But, at least for the moment, Remus keeps quiet. 

Alice and the witch behind the desk engage in a brief staring match. The car growls at Remus and Alice glares at the cat. She can feel her magic welling up; she has to fight for control. 

“You can stay the night for the regular fare,” the witch agrees at last. “As long as you’re gone before breakfast—an hour after dawn, at the latest.” 

“That--” interjects, Remus, before Alice can get it in her mind to argue, further. “We can agree to.” 

Alice steps back, her role complete for the time being, while Remus hands over the required amount of money to the witch—who rubs her hand in a paranoid fashion on her leg after taking the coins and is sure to drop the keys to the room into Remus’s hand, without touching his skin. 

The witch asks Alice again, if there isn’t somebody she should call for her, but Alice ignores her, muttering a curse under her breath as she goes up the stairs, Remus following abashedly—but with a certain amount of relief, at leaving behind the bristling white cat—behind her. 

__________________________________________________________________ 

“You would benefit from a bath,” says Remus to Alice, trying to put it lightly, but frankly horrified by how slight and on the verge of death she looks in the cold blue moonlight cutting through the window. 

Alice wants to say something to him about how terrible the witch downstairs had been—especially now that she notices the room itself is clearly one of the poorer ones the establishment has to offer, surely a purposeful move on the innkeeper's part. But she decides against saying anything, knowing it would be nonsensical of her to get worked up, in his eyes, when she isn’t supposed to know about why the witch had been so unkind in the first place. 

“You’re right,” she says with a tense exhale, moving to stretch her back but quickly wincing in pain and turning from him in an effort to hide it. “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” and then hurrying into the small bathroom, working hard to conceal a limp as she goes. 

Once inside the bathroom, she waves her hand, willing the candles in the sconces on the walls to light, and though she’s exhausted, her magic complies. A Victorian bathtub waits in the center of the room, waiting to be filled, but before she can draw her wand and set about the task, she catches the sight of herself in the mirror, and turns to look at her reflection, startled. 

The look of tragedy is inherent in everything about the girl she sees. Both her knees are skinned through ripped knees in her pants. She has a deep purpling bruise across her shoulder and collarbones. Dirt is all over her, from when she’d dropped and rolled on the ground. Her hair is matted with ashes and blood. She looks an absolute wreck. Something in the eyes of the girl in the mirror looks very unnatural and unnerving, and Alice looks quickly away, disturbed, deciding not to think about the fact that her own body is the same boy as the one she’d just seen. 

Instead, she channels her abilities into filling the Victorian tub with water, and then heating it with a series of spells she’s surprised at and proud of herself for remembering with such ease. 

Cautiously, she sets about undressing, hissing in pain as she does so. “Impervius,” she says to waterproof the bandages over her burned arm. And then, with great difficulty, she eases her trembling, cold body down into the water, wincing and almost whimpering aloud as she does so—her injuries stinging in the water, and her whole body aching from the warmth. 

Her pain is too great for her to think about trying to scrub herself clean, and for a number of minutes she lays there still, and nearly thoughtless, barely breathing—half-unconscious. 

“Alice?” Remus’s voice interrupts nervously from outside the door, when almost ten minutes have gone by without a sound from her. “Have you fallen asleep in there?” 

“Nearly,” she admits as she resurfaces, a sudden blush rushing into her cheeks and dizzying her, for reasons she can’t quite explain. “Thank you, or I might have drowned.” 

He makes some mumbled response, and she sits up, the water shifting slightly around her as she begins to scrub at herself finally, the water promptly becoming darker as the ash and dirt and blood separates itself from her skin. 

There’s no towel in the bathroom, so once she’s finished her bath, she cleans her clothes magically, dries off using her jacket, and then dries the jacket again before putting it and her pants on, ignoring the rips in the fabric. Leaning against the wall exhaustedly, fighting just to remain standing up at this hour of night, and after such a horrid and confusing day, she magically drains the tub and extinguishes the candles with a wave of her hand. She takes a moment to collect herself, and then limps out the door into the bedroom, where Remus awaits. 

“Well,” she says after an awkward moment, seeing that there’s nothing to be done but make the obvious observation aloud: “There’s only one bed.” 

The next minute is filled with a series of moves and countermoves by them both, each trying to convince the other into taking the bed for the night. In the end, it’s Alice who wins—her argument being that she’s the smaller of them, and would therefore have a more comfortable time sleeping in the chair by the window than Remus could. At the last moment she almost adds something about the nearness of his transformation, but then just in time, she gains control of her tongue, quickly turning away from the moon, which she’d been looking at through the window. 

Remus, with hidden tactics of his own, consents to taking the bed. 

Sure enough, no sooner has the girl sat down in the chair, than she immediately falls asleep, out like a light, the dark purple bruise ghostly on her chest in the cold moonlight. Remus shivers as he passes through its spotlight, and carefully, minding the girl’s bandaged arm, picks her up in his arms. She’s a healthy weight, but not hard to carry, even considering his exhaustion, and he maneuvers her carefully to the bed, careful not to wake her as he situates her beneath the covers, being especially careful of her neck and head as they meet the not-too-soft but still-functional pillow. 

After ensuring that the blankets are adequately pulled up to her chin, and that she is, indeed, fast asleep, the wizard retreats, sitting in the chair, himself. He looks at her for a moment, before turning his gaze to the moon helplessly, watching it as though if he looks at it hard enough, it might be kept from progressing forward further, on its ever-fluxing path of waxing and waning, fullness and newness. 

Remus Lupin has had many a staring match with the moon. But tonight is different. The cold celestial body seems closer to the earth than usual, but is still much too far away to be reasoned with. It is like his god. A cruel god—the cruelest and least affectionate of all. 

“What do you want from me?” he whispers under his breath. 

But, of course, he gets no answer. Knowing he won’t be capable of sleep this close to his transformation—he never is, closer than four days out, too full of anxiety and slowly ramping adrenaline to even muster an hour of shuteye—he turns himself stubbornly away from the cold, white face of his lifelong tormentor, his gaze falling instead upon Alice, the blankets surrounding her rising and falling slowly in reaction to her breathing. 

After a moment of nothingness, a sudden jolt of somethingness comes up within him, a slight curl, a stir of an entirely inappropriate feeling. 

He stops himself short. He’s exhausted, yes, but also on edge, and anxious, casting the strange sensation off onto the proximity of his next transformation. And he’s sure there's a dose of truth in this excuse he gives himself for the sudden feeling, low in his gut, and pooling outward like an incessant fire. And yet... there’s something deep within him that is made... hungry... by the sight of her. 

it’s more than the adrenaline still coursing through his veins from the events of the night, which had encouraged a sudden return of many old instincts he’d developed and honed during his time with the Order in the first war. It’s more than his exhaustion, more than the time of night and the time of month. 

A terror seeps through his mind, freezing cold, a terror of his own self, a terror not only of the unstable body surrounding him, but of his head, itself, of his very essence and soul. 

Is this something terrible and truly wolfish welling up within him? Something more than hunger? Is he comparable to the infamous Big Bad who’d eaten the little girl in the red cloak on her way to her grandmother’s house in the muggle fable? Is he, Remus Lupin, truly Bad? 

the moon’s light seems to laugh as it slices down into the room, and quickly he turns himself away from the girl, staring at the grimy corner of the chilly room—though both the presence of the moon at his one side, and the presence of Alice at his other, is only made more maddening by the fact that he refuses to face either of them. 

____________________________________________________________________ 

In the morning, Alice wakes to find herself laying under the warm covers of the stiff but serviceable bed, and Remus sitting In the chair, facing the window, watching the sunrise. He looks over at her and smiles wearily, something in his eyes on edge. They are out of the inn, and out of Godric’s Hollow, long before the other patrons wake to breakfast. 

____________________________________________________________________ 

A twist of blank anger takes hold of Theodore Nott’s face as he sits in the great room and listens to his parents’ long-overdue confessions. The house breathes creakily around them. Logan Morelli, every part of him but his hooked bird-like nose covered in shadows, stands in the corner, observing discreetly. 

Haden and Vanessa Nott have made the decision, at last, to tell their son about their daughter, the daughter who they still have not found, the daughter who they wish would come home... the daughter they have just requested Logan Morelli strengthen his search for, the daughter who had not been at Hogwarts, as they’d suspected, who had somehow moved away, right under their noses, just a step ahead of their reaching fingertips. 

Theodore stands, slighted, anger and spite curling inside of his body like a dark smoke that won’t let him cough, or expel it in any way. 

Haden, who had been one of the cloaked Death Eaters to take part in the raid at the World Cup just days before, feels his own horror at what he’s done by not telling his son of the girl, sooner. The feeling is like a hammer, tapping on each of his nerves in turn, cycling around and around. 

Vanessa sits in her chair by the untuned, dusty harpsichord, her knuckles white against her skin, her face taut and emotionless. 

Their son screams. 

The walls tremble. 

_______________________________________________________________ 

Adrian Morelli carries the news to Dumbledore an hour later, his robes swirling around him stubbornly in the early autumn air as he hurries, almost at a run, across the bridge, into the castle, and through the corridors. 

The staff have arrived earlier than usual, and everyone bustles about busily, preparing the school to serve as host for Beauxbatonsand Durmstrang. The messenger finds the Headmaster and Proffessor McGonagall together in the courtyard gardens, enjoying a short respite from the other happenings around them. 

“How lovely the roses smell, today,” says Dumbledore dreamily, as the man hurries up to them. 

“Albus, please,” begs Minerva, who had seen Morelli approaching from a corridor away. 

They listen closely as Logan relays what he had heard at the Nott household, and the happenings with their son Theodore. He proposes that Lucius Malfoy still has not said anything to the Notts regarding Alice’s stay at his manor, knowing that this is information he can hold over the girl’s head to manipulate her in the future. 

Dumbledore thanks Morelli for this wise piece of cynicism—a thing he sorely lacks, especially surrounded by such lovely roses. 

McGonagall shoots the headmaster a glare, and proceeds to ask Morelli what he believes the best course of action would be, now that he’s been ordered to seek out and find Alice by any means necessary. 

The messenger humbly admits that he believes the only way the girl will be kept adequately safe in the coming months, especially when the recent rise of dark forces in the Wizarding world is considered, is that she should stay at Hogwarts, entering as a sixth year. 

McGonagall asks whether there would be any possibility for Theodore Nott and Alice to recognize one another as siblings. 

Dumbledore says it would be doubtful for them to recognize one another by sight, but quite possible for them to discover their common origins—especially if Alice is sorted into Slytherin House. 

McGonagall says something to the effect of a prayer that the girl will be placed elsewhere. 

Dumbledore defends the Slytherins, though silently, he does hope, given the girl’s extreme power and the darkness she’s survived, that she will not find herself under the influence of Slytherin tendencies. 

It is decided that Alice will be invited to attend Hogwarts in the coming year. 

Dumbledore departs immediately for Ottery St. Catchpole, where the Burrow and its occupants await, yet unaware. 

______________________________________________________________ 

Remus, recently back from his latest escape to Siberia, is the first to spot Dumbledore, from the front-facing window of the second-to-uppermost room in the house, where he’s been resting for the past day. 

He’d expected the last week or so of the summer to be largely uneventful. But this event quickly dashes those expectations, and he feels a certain alertness come to attention at the forefront of his mind, filled suddenly with worry at the appearance of the important and busy headmaster. 

Molly is the next to notice Dumbledore, through the kitchen window, and then Arthur, who has been standing beside her. Their children, Harry, Alice and Hermione are all out in the backyard on broomsticks or otherwise, and unaware of the grey-robed wizard rapidly approaching the front door—and then, all too soon, knocking on it, the sound of his casual humming audible through the wood. 

“Good afternoon, Molly,” says the old wizard, when she opens the door, an undampened twinkle in his eyes and a queer smile on his lips. “May I come in?” 

Within two minutes, he’s sat down on the couch in the Weasleys’ sitting room with a cup of tea and a tray of sweets in front of him, remarking kindly on the loveliness of their home and asking if he might see Alice. 

Molly hurries to the back door and calls out into the back field for Alice, who pries herself away from Harry and comes inside. Meanwhile, Remus has made his way downstairs, masterfully concealing a limp, and he joins Alice, Dumbledore and the Weasley parents in the sitting room. 

The girl can feel her heart thumping hard inside of her body as Dumbledore prepares himself to get down to brass tacks. She’d spoken just two days before with Harry, at length, about the events which had taken place at the World Cup grounds after she’d left with Remus: the conjuring of the dark mark in the sky, and the bad feeling he got about the nightmare he’d had the night before the cup, itself—about a muggle man being murdered by a wizard, accompanied by Wormtail, who had been hiding in the form of Ron’s pet rat Scabbers for the whole of their third year. 

Alice knows that strange and dark things are happening in the world. And she can only pray, as she sits and waits for Dumbledore to reveal his purpose in the sitting room, that whatever is happening doesn’t involve another drastic uprooting into terror and employment, at her expense. 

“Alice,” begins Dumbledore, with an undercurrent of ‘on-the-contrary' as though he’s just read her thoughts. “I believe we’re all, in a sense, short on time. Would it offend you if I said what I came to say, simply and without unnecessary preamble?” 

“Of course not, sir,” says Alice, clasping her hands together tightly and squeezing them between her knees. 

“Thank you,” says Dumbledore, setting down his tea and taking a bite of one of the cookies on the tea tray, before beginning. “Put simply, I would like to invite you to attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I’ve come to the conclusion that, in light of certain events, you—and everyone, really—will be safer within the castle, than anywhere else.” 

A moment of quiet ensues, in which Molly and Arthur exchange worried glances, and Remus looks cautiously at Alice, who is trying and failing to contain her nervous shaking. A part of her is excited beyond belief by the prospect of going to Hogwarts—where, first and foremost, she will be able to keep watch over Draco and Harry. But another part of her, just as sizeable and powerful, is seized with panic at the thought of being so far from Remus; who she knows will not be returning to his professorial position in a week’s time. 

“I must agree with the headmaster, Albus,” says Remus after a moment. 

“Of course,” says the girl, shaking her head in agreement. “And I wouldn’t wish to be a burden on anyone else. I would be honored to join the other students, Headmaster.” 

“It’s agreed upon, then,” says Dumbledore with a soft clap of his aging hands. He leans forward towards Alice, a grandfatherly twinkle in his eye, but also a note of deep, profound apology which is not lost on her, and sets something deep in her heart at ease. “I’m very glad you’ve accepted my offer. I look forward extremely to seeing you in the great hall, soon.” 

He smiles at her, a small smile, and Alice has to contain a tear that almost rolls down her cheek, smiling back at him, her own small, thin version of happiness—but there, nevertheless. 

“I apologize for the abrupt nature of all this,” says Dumbledore, separating his gaze from hers and standing up from the divan, prompting the others in the room to follow suit. “But I’m afraid I must depart.” 

“Of course, Dumbledore,” says Arthur Weasley, smiling at the older wizard. 

“No apologies are necessary,” adds Molly. 

“Thank you,” says Dumbledore again, and waves them all a kind farewell, taking another cookie from the tea tray before smiling, his eyes twinkling behind his spectacles, and apparating suddenly out of the room, leaving a soft crack, and a pervasive aroma of peppermint and chocolate behind him. 

It takes all of two seconds for Alice to resurface from her brief moment of contentment, to rise like a lightning bolt form her seat, excuse herself with a murmur, and run out the side door into the woods, taking a route that keeps her from being spotted by the other Weasleys, and Harry and Hermione, from the backyard. 

Molly and Arthur look at each other in confusion and worry at the sudden actions, but Remus appeases them, putting out a hand and admitting with a sigh, “That would be my fault,” before pursuing the girl at a much slower jog, into the golden but chilly midday woods. 

________________________________________________________________________ 

He finds her sitting at the foot of a large, mossy tree, leaning back against the trunk. Her face is made sallow by the light filtering through the branches above, setting alight a number of tears on her face as she silently trembles. Her eyes are closed, and there’s something tragically beautiful about her in that position—she is a poem poured into a physical form. 

Remus takes a deep breath, approaching slowly so as not to startle her, and carefully sits down next to her. 

She breathes in and out shakily, still not opening her eyes, though she turns her face down from the light, towards the ground. “I don’t want to go,” she admits, barely whispering. 

“Whyever not?” asks Remus. He’d been under the impression that she would be champing at the bit to join other witches and wizard her age at Hogwarts, after being alone and cast out both at Ms. Figg’s house and at the Malfoy Estate for so many years. Why would the prospect of having friends, of being immersed in a nurturing magical community, away from it all, suddenly be deterring to her? 

The girl stands up with difficulty, carefully controlling her knees and steadying herself against the broad trunk of the tree as she turns slightly from Remus, hiding her face. He stands up after her, putting his hands in his pockets and looking at her bowed head, trying to decipher what her thoughts might be from the slight curve of her shoulder, the way her side moves as she inhales and exhales, the way the light turns the uppermost arc of her ear a flaming red, and makes visible the network of thin veins within. 

“Because--” she says, her voice quaking and cracking. “Because I don’t want to be away from you. Because...” Her head reels as she thinks the words, just a split second before they pass through her lips—and she can’t say it’s without her warrant. 

“Because I love you.” 

Remus Lupin is taken aback. But a small, logical voice of reason within itself quickly works to sweep the sudden behemoth of confusion under the rug, and then begins to postulate and theorize, muting his emotions. 

“Why?” he says aloud, his hands clenching into fists inside his pockets. “I could never offer you protection... stability... and that is what you need most, now. I don’t even know where I’ll go, myself, once you all leave on the train. I certainly can’t remain here.” 

He realizes he’s begun to ramble and shuts himself up before it’s too late, measuring the girl’s emotions by examining her head, the back of her neck, the small tendril of hair curling down from the bun atop her head. 

Quickly, he casts off this expressed attraction on the likelihood that the girl is—on instinct—seeking a man close to Lucius’s age, who might offer her protection and redemption, after escaping an abusive sexual relationship with the aforementioned. Quickly, he pegs the issue, just as he’d casted off that kiss in his office as Hogwarts as the byproduct of hormones and exhaustion. 

That kiss... when she’d been so overcome with confusion and weakness, when he’d turned around from setting her flowers in the vase, and she’d lifted herself up on her tiptoes and places her lips so fearfully against his. He’d had to pull himself away, though something in him had wanted to draw her towards him, had wanted to wrap his arms around her waist, to touch her cheek. 

The Remus of the present tries to stifle the bundle of confusion and the fluttering heartbeat that comes with the memory, but fails terribly. He knows, though he wishes he didn’t, that some part of him is attracted to her. But he doesn’t know what to make of the feeling. She is so young. He is so old, and unsafe, and... bad. 

Alice shakes her head, and forces herself to turn to him. He’d only been able to make excuses to her... but something stirs deep in her very soul, that requires more from him. “Remus,” she says, her voice quavering, but her intentions strong and written deeply, irreversibly, in her eyes. “I’m in love with you.” 

“No,” says the man, shaking his head in denial. “You aren’t.” The girl’s face falls slightly, but her eyes remain determined and strong in her face, looking forward at him unyieldingly. “You aren’t,” he says. “Alice, how could you be, I’m-- I’m undeniably poor, I haven’t done a thing to protect you from harm— For Merlin’s sake, Alice, I was eighteen years old—an adult—when you were being born. This is just... this isn’t right!” he exclaims, talking more to himself, now, than to her. 

“I don’t care,” says Alice, her voice still sad, but firm in its stance. 

He looks at her as though she’s mad, and perhaps she is, but this is a wonderful form of madness, and if she must be stuck in it, then stuck in it she will be. But she only prays that she won’t be stuck in it alone—without him. 

“No,” cries Remus, setting a number of small animals nearby on edge, but not loudly enough to inspire an exodus of birds. “You...” he nearly lifts a finger but stops himself, turning halfway away, an unspeakable grief catching in his throat. “You don’t,” he nearly whispers, “...don’t know what I am.” 

“Yes, I do.” 

A cold shock drills into his mind. But he knows she’s telling the truth—that she really does know. But though a part of him Is horrified by this sudden unveiling of truth, another part of him is full of a relief—not warm, but familiar, something he knows how to handle. He takes a slow step away from her and observes with the same mixture of regret and relief, that she is trembling. 

Remus shakes his head, donning a cynical smile. He can’t comprehend this girl. How can she stand here, how can she help but run away, when she knows how easily he could hurt her, being what he is? 

“Then you’re a fool for caring about me,” he says darkly. “You’re a smart girl. You ought to know that, by now.” 

He almost retreats, then and there, but a pinch of sour curiosity compels him to stand his ground; to dig further. 

“Who told you?” he says. When she’d first said the words, he considered that, just possibly Harry, Ron, or Hermione had been the one to tell her about his condition, after what had happened at the end of last year. But now, he’s not so sure. Perhaps, he hadn’t given the golden trio enough credit for their ability to hold tight to sensitive information. And yet, of course, they would tell Alice, such a good friend of theirs, about such an important development. In that case, she’d have to have found out before they did. 

“Malfoy?” Remus asks after a split second of deductions, already knowing it to be true. 

“Yes,” says Alice, taking a step forward. “But I’m not upset--” another step-- “I’m not afraid.” 

“Ha!” says Remus suddenly, the sound breaking out of his throat of its own free will. It’s at this, that several birds rise from the surrounding trees and make their way elsewhere. “Alice, isn’t that glorious! Look at you—look at how brave you are. Don’t be foolish,” he spits, surprising himself, but too far gone, now, to take it back, “Of course you’re afraid.” 

“No,” says the girl, too terrified of these uncharted waters to take another step forward, but too dedicated to her cause to take a step back. “I’m not.” 

“Stop!” he shouts, suddenly towering over her, a dark, intimidating factor in his eyes which she’s never seen present there, before. 

Now, everything falls silent. Even the breeze. The sunlight, on its streaming path through the branches, pauses. The woods hold its breath. 

Alice stumbles backward and steadies herself against the trunk of the tree, startled, tears springing into her eyes and racing down her cheeks from the instinctive fear at the volume of his voice. She swipes them away, shuddering. Remus shrinks again. 

“There,” he says. “See? You are frightened. That’s good. That's your instinct. Listen to it.” 

Slowly the woods returns to life. But Alice isn’t finished. 

“That’s unfair,” she begins. It takes a moment for her to crawl free of her tremulous feelings, but soon her voice becomes even steadier than beforehand. “You can’t manipulate my expectations that way—of course I was startled. But I’m still not afraid of you.” 

Remus shakes his head and looks down at the ground between his old shoes. This is a lost cause. He feels shame welling up inside of him at his loss of control. 

“Remus,” Alice says, finally working up the courage to regain her ground, slowly coming towards him, but not close enough to touch. “Remember, in the winter, when you taught me how to conjure my Patronus?” 

He looks up at her, defeated, having hoped she wouldn’t bring this up. 

“I told you that my happy memory was of Dumbledore, when I first saw real wand-magic, the same night when Harry was brought to Privet Drive.” 

She collects herself, knowing this admission will be of great import, and works hard to look the wizard directly in the eyes. “That was a lie,” she says. “I thought of you. When you fixed the glass that I broke in Ms. Figg’s backyard and smiled at me. I thought you would be angry.” 

Bravely, she takes another fraction of a step forward. “I’m not afraid of you. You’re good. You’re... a good person.” 

The words seem, to her, to fall flat. But she knows they’re the only words she could ever say. There is no way to put what needs to be conveyed into language form. She wishes with all her soul that there was some other way to show him. But she knows there isn’t. Especially when his every fiber is set against her, in this way. 

Remus shakes his head again, the formidable instinct to shout coiling within him, but he suppresses it. “I’m not... a person,” he says, barely above a whisper. “Alice. Look at me.” 

Shakily, his hand rises to his face, and his fingers trace the old familiar scars, barely missing his eye before cutting across his cheek and the bony bridge of his nose. 

Alice shivers. Something is so... cold about all of this. She can’t deny that there truly is a sort of terror in her—Remus is not entirely wrong, and he knows it. She knows he knows it, from the devastated, but reserved and unattached way he looks at her in the following moments. 

It’s too much. 

The girl crumbles into sobs. On the tree above her, an entire branch full of leaves suddenly wither and turn to brown, dislodging themselves without need of wind and drifting down lazily to the ground around her. 

Remus steels his body against the possibility of an embrace, as motionless as a statue. 

Alice is the one to walk away first, deeper into the woods, not back to the Burrow, leaving him there in his grief—a hateful, self-serving grief for himself... but most of all, a grief for her. 

_____________________________________________________________________ 

The next day, Fred and George escort her to Diagon Alley, where they shop for her school supplies, managing after much effort to finally distract and cheer her with jokes and charms of their own devising. 

Being surrounded by magic never fails to take a positive, joyful toll on Alice, and in no time, it’s as though she’s never felt warmer. 

The argument in the woods, and Remus himself, are far from her mind. 

When they return to the Burrow that evening, he is gone. 

_______________________________________________________________________________ 

Spells used in this chapter: 

“Brackium Emendo,” a spell used to heal broken bones. This is the spell Gilderoy Lockhart tried and failed to use on Harry’s arm in his second year—luckily, Remus is a much more trustworthy wizard, in more ways than one. 

“Impervius,” used to waterproof items, in this case, Alice’s burn bandages before she gets into the bath 

I know the scene in the Nott house was very brief—I felt that I just needed to get you to see what was happening with Theodore (before we head to Hogwarts), without making you sit through a really mundane scene. The same issue with some of the other happenings in this chapter... I hope these smaller snippets don’t throw you off! You can always let me know if there’s something about the writing that doesn’t sit well with your reading style, and I will do my best to improve! 

Sorry if there was some too-overstated symbolism in this chapter... I usually try to keep it as subtle as possible for the sake of letting you do some thinking for yourselves, but I felt that probably it got to be a little too much, here. (For example, Remus sitting literally torn between the moon and Alice in the Inn room at night may have been a little too obvious). So, I just want you to know that when that sort of thing happens in my writing, it’s not because I think you’re daft and can’t figure things out for yourself—it's just because I’m the daft one, and too sleep-deprived to be writing in the given moment. 

This probably doesn't matter, anyway... I have a feeling you’ll forgive me. 

Thank you all for reading! I hope the site doesn't give me too much more trouble with posting chapters in the future... sorry about that! 

(Also, yeah, that plan about keeping this super short didn’t really work out. But hey, at least it wasn’t in the five-figure range!) 

NEXT CHAPTER: OFF TO HOGWARTS! I’M SO EXCITED!!! GOOD (AND REALLY, REALLY BAD) THINGS COMING UP AHEAD! 

Thank you for not plagiarizing my writing! 

On_Errand_Bad 

8,227 words 

Wednesday, 4 November 2020


	11. XI | Hogwarts

(Really Long) Note: 

Leila Davis, thank you so much for your beautiful review! It was so fun and touching to see your reactions and emotions regarding the story! It’s wonderful to hear your perspective! I addressed your inquiry about why Alice isn’t really that angry at Dumbledore in this chapter, and I hope the answer is to your satisfaction... continue letting me know if there’s a burning question you have!!! 

Une-papillon-de-nuit has sent me a list of potential Alices that might work better in the casting: Mackenzie Foy, Thomasin McKenzie, or a young Kate Moss. I, personally, can see all of these, and think that any of the would work quite a bit better than Anya Taylor-Joy (no offense to anyone who has been finding her perfectly suited to the part)! This is a lot of names to put into the cast every time, so I will just make a list of possible Alices separately. Continue to let me know if there is anyone you would like me to add! 

In this chapter, there is a point at which I reveal Remus to be an Animagus. I know he was never an Animagus in the books, and it makes sense that he wouldn’t be, since he hates everything about his Wolf-ness. But I believe that transforming into animal form would be a valuable skill that he had, even if he uses it very rarely. Not TOO out of canon, but I felt the need to let you know beforehand that this is not typical of Remus’s character from the books / movies. 

Likewise, I wanted to let you all know ahead of time that the timeline both in the fourth book and the fourth movie is extremely confusing to try to write off of. I have a couple of calendars that I usually use for reference and all of them say different things... so if you could, kind of, just roll with me on this one, without digging too deep into logistics, that would be much appreciated. For reference: fourth year, Sirius Black and Buckbeak are hiding in a cave near Hogsmeade. Remus is doing much of what he had been doing before Dumbledore offered him the third year DADA position, floating from place to place, relying on only himself. 

Thank you, FreyaHawthorne and becky157689 for following and favoriting! Thanks, Le.chaton.d’amite and greenistari for following! 

Myharlequinromance321 on AO3 has suggested that Daniel Bruhl could work as a potential Remus, so I am going to add him to the cast! Thank you for your suggestions, and for commenting! 

Thank you Kingsman_Merlin and What_Goldfish on AO3 for bookmarking and leaving kudos on the story! Thanks, also, to myharlequinromance321, FEED_ME_MEMES, zozozo, starshineandmoonlight, and aimeesullivannn for leaving kudos! 

I’ve gotten some really wonderful comments from guests, and it makes me so sad not to be able to reply! If you’re on ff.net and can add your email so that I can respond to you, I would be so happy! (and the site keeps your email anonymous, too, so I don’t have your personal information... if that was a concern). Thank you for your encouragement! 

WE ARE FINALLY GOING TO SEE SIRIUS BLACK IN THIS CHAPTER! I am SO excited to finally write him!!! Okay, I’ll shut up, now, and actually get to work. :) 

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling the Utmost Venerable. 

Special Disclaimer: All of Dumbledore’s lines in the section in which the Goblet is unveiled, are directly from the films, not of my own creation. 

Chapter Eleven Totally Optional Cast (In order of appearance) 

Alice: Mackenzie Foy, Kate Moss (young), Thomasin McKenzie, Anya Taylor-Joy 

Oliver Phelps . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . George Weasley   
James Phelps . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Fred Weasley   
Daniel Radcliffe . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Harry Potter   
Rupert Grint . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Ronald Weasley   
Bonnie Wright . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Ginny Weasley   
Emma Watson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Hermione Granger   
Tom Felton . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Draco Malfoy   
Sir Michael Gambon . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Dumbledore   
Brendan Gleeson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Alastor “Mad-Eye” Moody   
Alan Rickman . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Severus Snape   
Stanislav Yanevski . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Viktor Krum   
Clemence Poesy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Fleur Delacour   
Colin Morgan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Theodore Nott   
Robert Pattinson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Cedric Diggory 

Gary Oldman . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Sirius Black   
David Thewlis / Domhnall Gleeson / Daniel Bruhl . . . . . . . . Remus Lupin 

____________________________________________________________ 

XI | Hogwarts 

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry   
and A Cave Outside of Hogsmeade Village   
Autumn 1994 

“What’s got you so bothered?” 

Fred’s voice cleaves through the lonely silence that had filled her head, before. She'd been lost in thought, looking out the window but feeling nothing in reaction to the beautiful scenery, after having read a worrying article in the Daily Prophet regarding the events at the World Cup. Fred and George had both been busy buying (and stealing) a number of sweets from the trolley and hadn’t noticed her unpleasant trance until after they’d already unpacked much of the candy and started rationing some for eating, and some for examining for inspiration for some trick sweets of their own. 

Alice works herself out of her daze at the sound of Fred’s voice and shakes her head. “Loads of things, I guess,” she says, managing a half-smile before looking back out the window. From overhead where they’ve stocked their trunks, comes the gentle cooing of the barn owl the Weasleys had bought for her during her and the twins’ shopping trip in Diagon Alley a week before. Alice looks up at him—Horatio, they’d decided to name him, after the Shakespeare character—and narrows her eyes as he cocks his head to one side and squawks sympathetically. She and the bird hadn’t quite managed to bond all the way yet, but they are still slowly managing. 

“Pumpkin Pasties are good for cheering up,” suggests George, slightly disheartened by the dismal look on his friend’s face. Something stirs in Alice’s heart at the twins’ hospitality towards her, but she has to shake her head and decline; if she were to eat a single bite of food, she’s certain it would come directly back up again. 

Alice can sense from any number of compartments away that Harry’s scar is hurting badly, even worse than it had been hurting before they’d parted ways on the platform at Kings Cross station. That becomes, quickly, the foundation for a house full of problems, not all of which she can name, but all of which she can feel heavy on her heart. 

The ministry has no idea who conjured the dark mark in the sky. If Harry’s dream Is to be taken at face value, the Dark Lord has returned, in some sense, but nobody will speak about it, not even Harry. 

She thinks about Remus, for leaving, and worries about where he is, and who he might be with—though the possibility that he isn’t with anyone at all is the most terrifying, and most likely, of all scenarios. 

She thinks about the tremendous, selfless hospitality so many had shown her—so many whose faces she cannot even recall for the thickness of her depression over that past spring and summer, and she thinks about the Weasleys. 

She thinks about her parents, her real parents, the glimpse of them she’d caught at the Hallowe’en ball... and then she thinks about the Malfoys, her body going rigid at the thought of Lucius, and then melting at the thought of Fynn and, finally, Draco... Draco, who is somewhere on this very train, who she will be able to see in the flesh, and embrace, and apologize to in full, when they reach the school. 

Her thoughts are interrupted by a sudden flicker of white against the green and grey landscape of the highlands alongside the railway. Her eyes focus in on the object, and she identifies it quickly as Harry’s owl, Hedwig, a letter clasped in her claws. She knows immediately that the letter must be addressed to Sirius Black. It would be Hermione who finally convinced Harry to send it, but Alice had been on him trying to get him to write to his Godfather for days on end, after his nightmares had intensified, along with the pain in his forehead. 

A sudden pang of guilt punctures her chest, so real and poignant that she actually looks down at her shirt, and is surprised when there is nothing there but fabric, and the small shape of her body beneath it. Quickly she turns her eyes back to the window, the cause of her sudden anguish still at the forefront of her mind. 

It’s been months and months, and she hasn’t so much as reached out to Arabella Figg by post. 

How could she abandon the woman who raised her, so? Harry has been itching to see Sirius in person ever since he got out of prison, but she has not excuse to be separated from the woman on Privet Drive—who is still, surely, alone, who surely misses her with a desperation that the girl hates herself for not feeling. Or, perhaps, she has felt homesick all this time, and just never had a moment to breathe and recognize the feeling buried so deeply inside her chest. 

She could stand up on the seat and get paper and quill from her trunk and pen a letter at this very moment; she could send it out to the woman with Horatio, could let him out the train window then and there. But for the moment, she just wants to cry. A wave of extreme sadness crashes onto her and keeps her down, making it feel as though her ribs are slowly being crushed into her lungs. 

She considers leaving the compartment and going in search of a quiet spot, perhaps a loo, where she can sob in private. But she’s too distraught to move, so decides to just stay there and be quiet, while Fred and George toss candy at each other, trying in vain to alleviate the sadness permeating the compartment. 

_______________________________________________________________________________ 

A shout of awe rushes over the jumbled crowd of students as the Beauxbatons’ pegasus-drawn carriage flies down from the clouds and skims across the water of the lake like a figure skater before landing swiftly on the ground at the lower edge of the grounds. An even greater wave of awed silence falls upon them all when the Durmstrang ship rises dramatically, in sharp contrast to the delicacy of the carriage, from the waters of the Long Lake, beads of water trembling off its mast in great amounts as it bobs up and rights itself steadily. 

Everyone crowds around the windows to watch the respective arrivals of the guests, object of much speculation, Fred and George keeping to the front. Nobody notices Albus Dumbledore come around the corner of the hall and start towards the crowd of students, aiming to find Alice and pulls her aside—a feat which proves the opposite of difficult.The girl has been making an effort to observe quietly, from a point further away from the others. Something about the crowd seems overwhelming and anxiety-inducing to her, but aloneness carries its own weight, so she’s decided against going off in search of Draco around the castle—that, she has to put off until later. 

“Alice,” says Dumbledore, freeing the addressed from the heavy shackles of her thoughts—in the same negative, anxious line that they’d followed on the Hogwarts Expressed earlier that afternoon. 

“Headmaster,” she says, trying to straighten herself up, but knowing that the wise old wizard can see through her façade of contentment. A part of her is angry at the man beyond belief, blaming her difficulties upon him, seeing how easily her trials may have been avoided if he had only mustered the will to wave his hand in a different direction than he had, in this reality. But another part of her is determined to forgive and forget, another part of her doesn’t even want to remember what happened to her, at all—and so she is slightly numb to his presence, and not as angry as she might have been under different circumstances. 

“May I speak to you in private for just a moment?” he asks, though they’re already separate enough from the otherwise-engaged crowd to be considered in a private setting. She nods her head and they take a number of steps away from the windows. The old wizard bends his face towards the girl’s, a twinkle in his eye, and an element of respect that recognizes the part his faults have played in the struggles of her life—something that doesn’t have to be acknowledged aloud for her to appreciate it, and absolve the old man of all his charges. 

“Is there a problem?” she asks, worriedly, a number of scenarios involving Draco being stolen, killed, or otherwise injured flashing through her mind as though on a projector. 

“No, no,” says the headmaster, seeming to sense the place to which her mind had so immediately gone. “It’s only that, for the sorting, you will require a surname, my dear.” 

He raises an eyebrow slightly, and she understands what he means. She almost interjects, before he speaks her thoughts aloud for her. 

“You will not be required to use the name that correlates to your bloodline, however. You may choose your own—but be cautious in this... a name is very important, especially when one gives it to oneself.” 

The first last name in the girl’s head is Remus’s. But she knows this would be entirely inappropriate, and a legitimate impossibility, so she shoves it from her thoughts... though the residual warmth on her cheeks, and the simultaneous threat of tears at the memory of how he’d left the Burrow without saying goodbye, remain blatant on her face. 

“I don’t know, headmaster,” she says, looking down at the floor between his two peculiar blue pointed shoes, making an effort not to cry, and succeeding admirably. 

“May I suggest...” says Albus, after momentarily searching the ceiling for inspiration, “Lowell?” 

Something about the sudden wink in his eye makes her trust his judgement, and something rings true about the voice, though she doesn’t know what. “Yes, headmaster,” she says, grateful that a decision had been made for her. 

“I will take note of it,” says the wizard with a nod, smiling slightly beneath his wiry beard. “Good luck... Ms. Lowell.” He winks at her yet again, and then turns away on a quiet heel, seeming to blend directly into the grey of the corridor wall before he’s even turned the corner. 

____________________________________________________ 

Soon afterward, everyone starts to make their way towards the area in front of the great hall, the older students filing through the doors and sitting down at their designated house tables, still bare of the coming feast. Alice, however, is stopped just short of the doors by Professor McGonagall, who waits there for the soon-to-arrive first year students. 

“Ms. Lowell,” she says with meaning—Alice's eyes widen for a moment before she remembers how quickly news travels when Dumbledore wants it to—and holds out a hand towards the girl, who has been walking alongside Fred and George. “I’m afraid,” her Scottish accent says, her eyes friendly but full of a masked regret, similar to Dumbledore’s, “you’ll have to enter along with the first years, according to tradition. You’re welcome to wait here, with me.” 

Alice nods her head in understanding, something coiling in her stomach which she can’t quite place—perhaps it’s a bit of shame, standing before the woman, who she knows is aware of the horrors she’d suffered at the hands of Lucius Malfoy. A part of her wishes that nobody knew at all; that she could suffer the memories alone, and not enforce them upon the present by being surrounded by others who knew her secret. But still she musters a smile at the professor, who returns it in such a way that Alice suddenly wonders if it really is such a curse for her suffering to be known by powerful people who care for her. 

Fred and George turn to her in unison, walking backwards with the others through the doors and raising their tall heads above the crowd. “Don’t worry, Alice!” George calls. “Nobody will mistake you for an actual first year.” And Fred continues, with a mischievous but warm grin: “You’d have to be abnormally old, for that to be the case.” The twins don identical smiles of encouragement and salute her before turning and joining the other Gryffindors at their table. 

Soon, the first years arrive, led by Hagrid, with whom she’d become only vaguely familiar, after encountering him a number of times around the grounds that summer when she’d been at Hogwarts before leaving for the Malfoy Manor. She doesn’t recognize any of the newcomers... apart from one young boy who she thinks she vaguely remembers from the ball at the Manor last Hallowe’en... but she believes herself to be merely imagining the connection. The group, on the whole, is a small one—no doubt to do with the scandal involving Sirius Balck’s invasion of the castle last year, not to mention the fact that Dumbledore had hired Remus as a professor, something that shocked many in the wizarding community, though Alice would never understand the stigma that came along with his condition. 

Were he here, she knows he would argue against her, telling her that she only disagrees with the majority of society because she doesn’t fully comprehend the dangers his condition poses. But still, were he with her, she would argue directly back, as she has done before, knowing for sure—or at least believing very strongly—that he is wrong. 

After a number of preliminary introductions and instructions, McGonagall opens the doors to the great hall, and all of them walk in two single file lines down the aisle towards the front of the hall. A slight twinge of awkwardness stirs in her chest, knowing that, though she has never been a tall person, she is a head above most of the eleven-year-olds. The other young students are all looking up and around in awe, at the ceiling, the windows, and all the older students looking at them—and at Alice—curiously. But the anxious feeling quickly dissipates. The place is familiar to the girl, but she still gets a sudden stir of excitement and wonder of her own—this is it; what she’s been waiting for, for years on end: to be a part of a family, to learn magic, and to be herself, without any rigid confines inhibiting her growth and freedom. 

As they near the front of the room, she looks over to the Gryffindor table, and makes eye contact with Fred, George and Harry, who reassure her with raised eyebrows and smiles. But just as soon, another pair of eyes can be felt from her other side... and she turns her head to seek out Draco, finding him in a heartbeat. He’s grown, even since she’d glimpsed him ever so briefly at the World Cup, his white hair combed to the side, his face longer and more mature, his eyes cold but desperate, and drilling into hers. 

Suddenly, she realizes that she does have cause to be nervous—about what house she will be sorted into. All at once, the stakes become high once again, higher than she’d thought them to be, before. She looks into the boy’s eyes hopefully, stubbornly, with her own reassuring gaze. She must get into Slytherin. 

Starting with the letter “L,” Alice’s adopted surname falls in the center of the alphabet, and she is called when roughly half of the regular first years have already been sorted and gone on to their designated house’s table. As she walks up to the stool, she feels a dark and insistent pair of eyes on her, and her own gaze darts up, quickly locating the owner of the eyes—Severus Snape, seated at the Staff table. He’s looking at her very hard, and she isn’t sure what to make of his gaze, or of him, at all. She can remember his brittle mannerisms from the summer before, but also remembers that he had given Lucius a good report on her behavior—he hadn’t ratted her out for sleepwalking around the castle, and accidentally leaving Fynn alone one night. Yet, a strong dislike for the Professor is alive and well in the center of her chest, for the way he’d insulted Remus on that same night, in the dim corridor, when he’d nearly discovered the Marauders’ Map. 

The girl decides to raise her chin up, and looks at the professor confidently, prompting one of his eyebrows to lift slightly in challenge, just a split second before she turns around and sits down with dignity intact upon the stool. 

Dizziness drapes itself over her as she looks out at the others, some of them whispering, wondering where she'd come from, knowing that she is clearly not a first year. Her dangling feet suddenly feel as though they are much further the floor than they really are. Again, she locates Draco’s eyes in the crowd, and nods minutely to him, barely moving at all, but just enough for him to know that she hasn’t given up on him. 

McGonagall gently lowers the Sorting Hat onto Alice’s head, and a strange, warm purple static fills her mind from ear tear, along with a purring sound. 

“Alice Nott, I see. But why have they called you Lowell instead?” 

The words are confined only to the walls of her head, and her ears don’t hear any actual sound, but it is just as real as though a deep, gravelly voice had been speaking just beside her. It’s a wonderful and frightening use of magic, and the girl’s eyes widen a bit before she forces herself to focus, looking back at Draco and centering herself in her purpose, again. 

She focuses all her energy on making her goal heard, and she thinks with all her might, thinks sharply, as though putting out an SOS message, praying that the hat will be able to hear her, as she can hear it. “Please,” she thinks loudly, “put me in Slytherin, please, please, put me in Slytherin...” 

“Goodness, girl!” says the hat. 

McGonagall as well as many of the students have started to look at her curiously; Alice knows that this sorting Is taking longer than any of the first years’ had. 

“There’s no need to shout, so,” the hat continues. “I can hear a thought of average volume perfectly well, thank you very much. I may be ancient, but I’m not deaf.” 

A dark green ink of apology fills her mind, and she can feel that the hat has sensed it. “Please, put me in Slytherin,” she thinks again, almost in a whisper, but without losing any of her previous force, intensifying her gaze upon Draco’s eyes, as though if she looks at him hard enough, she might will herself into being sorted where she wishes. 

“Hmm,” thinks the hat. “Slytherin, eh? It’s in your blood, surely, for generations and generations before you... but why?” 

“Not for the blood,” thinks Alice. “There’s someone in Slytherin who needs my protection.” And as she thinks the words, an image of Draco, as seen through her eyes at present, fills her head. 

“Ah, Mr. Malfoy, I see,” muses the hat. 

“Yes,” says Alice, relieved and firm. “Yes.” 

“I see,” the hat repeats. “Well, I’m truly sorry, my dear, but I believe you, too, are in need of protection—perhaps more so than young Draco. Protection that can only be offered you by a number of individuals in a different house. Please don’t hold it against me, my dear. It’s my responsibility, nothing more.” And then, before she can protest or put a stop to it, the hat proclaims aloud, to the entirety of the great hall, “GRYFFINDOR!” 

In a daze, finding it difficult to breathe, she goes to sit down at the Gryffindor table, the cheering of her friends echoing meaninglessly in her ears. The sorting continues in a sped-up manner, the Hat proclaiming different houses left and right, and the respective tables cheering as they receive new first years. But Alice feels as though her world has been poured full of static. Seated with Fred on her one side and Harry on her other, she seeks out Draco’s eyes yet again, and finds them, hard and cold, and devastated... but not faithless... not yet. Her gaze relays her sadness and regret, and he nods at her briefly, his mouth twitching and his eyes narrowing, as though in an effort to avoid tears, before looks away. This shouldn’t be too bad, she convinces herself, as she looks around at her friends, at Fred and George, at Harry and Ron and Hermione and Ginny. If only Draco can forgive her, and she can forgive herself—not to mention that blasted Hat. 

Even when the feast magically appears in front of them, and everyone around her starts to pull onto their personal plates from the heaping platters, nothing is quite the same. It’s not until Dumbledore takes the podium, roughly halfway through the feast, and Fred pokes her shoulder gently, gesturing to a plate he’s filled for her, that she resurfaces from her maudlin stupor and makes herself take a bite into the roll, looking to the front of the hall. 

“Now that we’re all settled in and sorted,” comes the headmaster’s warm, encompassing voice, “I would like to make a special announcement.” 

A number of heads turn as the sound of the great hall’s doors unexpectedly opening echoes through the hall. Filch, without his cat, promptly appears, coming down the aisle in a hurry, bracing his hand against his knee to support it as he runs towards Dumbledore. 

“Hogwarts will not only be your home this year,” continues Dumbledore, largely ignored, “but home to some very special guests, as well. You see, Hogwarts has been chosen...” 

Filch mounts the stage and whispers and laughs spread like wildfire among the students as he whispers something anxiously in Dumbledore’s ear, and Dumbledore responds with a series of nods. 

“So--” the headmaster continues, once Filch has run back down the aisle and out the doors, “Hogwarts has been chosen to host a legendary event. The Triwizard Tournament.” 

Some react, and some do not, but those who react far outweigh the oblivious ones. “Wicked,” remark Fred and George, in perfect unison. 

“Now, for those of you who do not know,” Dumbledore says, before Alice has to ask someone to explain, “the Triwizard Tournament brings together three schools for a series of magical contests. From each school, a single student is selected to compete. Now let me be clear—if chosen, you stand alone. And trust me when I say these contests are not for the faint-hearted.” A minor feeling of grimness comes over the students, but quickly alleviates itself. “But more of that later. For now, please join me in welcoming the lovely ladies of the Beauxbatons Academy of Magic, and their headmistress, Madame Maxime.” 

They enter with a breath of air, clad in velvet-like blue uniforms, dresses that sway, and smart hats that complement their airy, confident manner. As they dance forward, almost like ballerinas for their grace, they sigh to one side and then the other, a little gymnast girl, smaller and younger than the others, with bird-like tufts at the edge of her silver leotard, following the older girls. A very tall woman with an elaborate red brocade for a coat, with what looks like black spiderwebs stitched over the shiny fabric, enters after they’ve finished their act, and Dumbledore greets her with a kiss on the back of her hand—a rather comedic picture, considering their extreme difference in height. 

Some of the Hogwarts girls look rather annoyed, and most of the boys’ eyes have grown dramatically in size. Alice is impartial, but does find Ron’s reaction amusing, along with Hermione’s reaction to Ron’s reaction. 

“And now,” announces Dumbledore, “our friends from the North—please greet the proud sons of Durmstrang, and their high master Igor Karkaroff.” 

No sooner has he finished, than the doors open once more—this time, with a harsh blast of freezing, icy wind that dampens some of the lights in the Great Hall, and sends a chill of intimidation through everyone. With equal, if not greater, intensity, the group of broad-chested, black-clothed young men enters, their heavy staffs colliding with the stone floors, igniting sparks with their contact and letting out a low chant with each collision—and then, all of a sudden, they all break into a hard sprint towards the front of the hall, doing intense acrobatics. Alice jumps at this—she'll be staying away from these Durmstrang boys as much as she is able. 

Much excitement spreads among the other students as Viktor Crum enters, clad in a coat and hat that sets him far above his peers. Ron looks as though he’s ready to faint from the overwhelming appearance of a celebrity Quidditch player, and Alice can’t help but lean away when he passes by, the set of his shoulders and eyes intimidating, making her draw slightly closer to Fred, on instinct. 

A fiery dragon conjured by one of the young men's wands is made to fly around the room, and Dumbledore and IgorKarkaroff greet each other, calling each other by name and embracing. “You alright, Alice?” asks Fred worriedly, his hand holding her upper arm and his eyebrows bent in concern—a strange expression to be seen upon his normally jovial face. 

“I’m alright,” Alice manages, feeling safer now that the spell of intimidation has passed, nodding at Fred and wishing suddenly that she could hug him and not knowing why. 

_______________________________________________________________ 

As the feast resumes, more sound added to the great hall by the two new groups, seated at two extra tables towards the front of the hall, four men clad in black working robes help to bring in and set up the Goblet, which is still hidden from view by a gold and black gilt case, which glitters in the candle- and torch-light. 

“May I have your attention,” requests Dumbledore, quickly gaining it, the loud, energized chatter dying out quickly, and making way for a silence so complete that one could hear a pin drop. “I’d like to say a few words: Eternal Glory.” Ron’s eyes suddenly glow with excitement, and a bit of greed, that makes something in Alice’s gut pinch tightly. A number of people at the Gryffindor table, and from all the houses, risk a meaningful glance towards Harry Potter, before turning and whispering with their friends. “That is what awaits the student who wins the Triwizard Tournament. But to do that, the student must survive three tasks. Three extremely dangerous tasks.” 

“Wicked!” say Fred and George, their eyes shining, as well, those timeless smiles of mischief curling at the corners of their mouths. 

“For this reason, the Ministry has seen fit to impose a new rule. To explain all this, we have the head of the Department of International Cooperation, Mr. Bartemius Crouch...” Dumbledore begins to gesture towards a black-robed man, but before anything else can pass, thunder suddenly crashes, overhead, blue light flickering through the hall as rain starts to pour down upon the tables, the forcefield of the ceiling unexpectedly giving way. 

But just as soon, it is put to a stop, a number of shrieks going up from the tables, until the rain comes to an abrupt end, and the ceiling firms up again. Many eyes follow down to the source of the magic, a large, angry looking man with a bizarre magical eye strapped around his mangy-haired head and a heavy greatcoat fitted with what could easily be hundreds of pockets and gadgets. The screams soon dissipate and reform as whispers and low chatter involving much speculation as to the man’s identity. Ron, Hermione and Harry quickly start whispering, and Alice overhears that he is an Auror responsible for many incarcerations to Azkaban, and his name is Alastor “Mad-Eye” Moody. One of his legs is made of metal, and after greeting Dumbledore with a rough handshake and a gruff Irish brogue, he takes a hard, distasteful swig of something out of a flask, before sitting down at the staff table. 

The excitement dies down, however, when Barteimus Crouch, the man from the Ministry, takes center stage, and the focus turns to him. “After due consideration,” he says nervously, his arms held out and his hands fidgeting—clearly hating to be the bearer of bad news to a crowd of riled-up teenagers, “the Ministry has concluded that, for their own safety, no student under the age of seventeen--” already cries of outrage take over the tables “--shall be allowed to put forth their name for the Triwizard Tournament. This decision is final--” 

But now the anger has grown to a cacophonous volume, Fred and George contributing a shout of “That’s RUBBISH!” to the fray, Mr. Crouch shrinking slightly and stepping back, as though afraid the students might begin to throw food at him--which would not have been all that surprising to Alice, either. 

Harry, in startling opposition to the other students, looks extremely relived—and Alice can’t blame him. Surely, he would have been expected to try to get in, with his name and reputation, and she can tell he’s relieved to be able to avoid this sort of attention. 

“SILENCE!” Dumbledore bellows, stepping forward. 

The students quickly go quiet. 

With a nonverbal charm from Dumbledore’s wand, the gold casing melts off of the ancient, large stone Goblet, revealing a spark of blue light that soon morphs into a giant, moving flame, furling and rippling like a piece of fabric. The flame crackles loudly, and its electric water-blue light dampens the warm light from the torches on the walls, slowly casting its spell over all within the room—eyes widening, hearts pounding at the chance of victory. Even Alice can feel an abnormal urge for competition rear up in the pit of her stomach. 

“The Goblet of Fire,” announces Dumbledore gravely. “Anyone wishing to submit themselves to the Tournament, need only write their name upon a piece of parchment, and throw it into the flame before this hour on Thursday night. Do not do so lightly. If chosen, there’s no turning back.” 

Not even a rustle moves through the students at the dire warning. The flame intensifies, making a sound like a flag in a strong, deep wind. 

Dumbledore looks out upon the students, his half-moon spectacles glittering menacingly in the cold, rippling light. “As from this moment, the Triwizard Tournament has begun.” 

________________________________________________________________ 

She catches up to Draco outside of the great hall, once the feast has ended. The others, caught up in conversation, proceed upstairs to the Gryffindor common room, but Fred and George linger by the staircase, waiting for her to rejoin them, and giving Draco intermittent glares as she hurries to catch up to and stop him, calling his name. 

Theodore Nott stands just beside Draco, and turns swiftly with an imperious expression on his face, upon hearing Draco’s name called. “Do you know this girl, Draco?” he says with a sneer, looking down at her from a great height, though he’s a year younger than her. She also notices, for the first time, that Draco has grown much taller, and stands almost a full head above her, now. 

Alice stops at a safe distance and stares hard at the black-haired boy next to Draco, sizing him up, and concerned by what she sees in his eyes. 

“Go on to the common room, Nott,” says Draco to the other boy. Alice feels an ice-cold rope loop around her heart and tug drastically, but she keeps her reaction at bay, her face draining slightly of color at worst. “I would prefer to speak to this... oversized first year... in private.” 

She is so afraid for a moment, so overwhelmed by her own emotions, and by the thoughts that race through her brain as Theodore Nott turns and descends the stairs along with the other Slytherins—that she doesn’t even care that Draco had felt it necessary to insult her in order to get his accomplice... her brother... to go away. All in a moment, she decides it is best not to tell Draco that Theodore Nott is her brother by blood. He isn’t sure how strong his bond is with the boy, and would die if he knew she was his sister—from what she has experience of the Pureblood Aristocracy, she wants nothing to do with him, or her parents, for that matter. 

And yet... 

Draco looks at her hard for a moment, before the vile expression melts off of his face. 

“I swear,” Alice breaths, “I begged to be put in Slytherin. But the bloody hat denied it.” 

“I believe you,” Responds Draco, his features seeming more fine than usual, and prepared to shatter. He truly has grown taller and leaner over the summer—he looks like a young man, now. “The Willoughby boy, the horse keeper, killed himself,” says Draco matter-of-factly. “I thought you might want to know. And the maid, Wickham, went to Azkaban shortly after your... departure.” 

A sudden nervousness takes over the boy, and he leans down slightly towards her. There's a question he’s been wanting—needing—to ask. He's had bad, bad thoughts lately, and manages only out of a sheer desperation to step closer to her and look into her eyes promptingly when he asks: “What... did my father... do to you?” 

Alice shakes her head suddenly, and gasps a little on instinct, clenching her eyes shut to recalibrate herself. 

“How is your brother?” she counters, and there’s something deep and challenging in her eyes that keeps Draco from pressing his previous question upon her, further. 

“Safe, and alright, as far as I’m concerned,” says Draco, drawing himself up again, nearly a head taller than her, indeed. A pompous look appears on his face, his father’s look, and Alice knows all at once that she's spoiled her shot at truly empathizing with him—at least for now—by not telling him the truth. But she knows that that will have to wait. “Father has found a new maid, but Fynn doesn’t like her—the boring old hag.” 

Alice knows beyond a doubt, now, that she will also have to wait to tell Draco anything about the reality of her bloodline, and her heritage, and the fact that his companion, the Nott boy whose first name she still doesn’t even know, herself, is her brother. 

Fred and Geroge wave her over towards them, hurriedly, and she looks over at them, returning their urgent look, signaling for them to wait. But when she turns back to bid Draco goodbye and apologize once more, he has already snuck down the stairs, and she watches as a glimpse of his pale blond hair disappears in the direction of the Slytherin common room. 

______________________________________________________________________ 

The following day, the last day of “freedom” (or so Ron calls it) before classes commence, Alice pens a letter to Ms. Figg, and sends it off South to Little Winghing with her owl Horatio, who is much more friendly and happy with her, now that she’s finally put him to use, rather than making him sit around in purposeless boredom all day long—a feeling to which she can certainly relate. A feeling of relief replaces the guilt in Alice’s chest, glad to have finally written to the woman after such a long hiatus. And Ms. Figg writes back to her promptly, to Alice’s further relief, expressing no anger at the girl for the separation. It’s clear, from the way Arabella writes, that she doesn't know what happened to Alice in the months they’ve been apart—and Alice decides that for now, she will keep it that way. 

However, her relief can only last so long—classes soon come crashing down upon her. Her schedule—even though it’s not nearly as packed as some other people’s, not to mention Hermione—is a lot to handle all at once, especially jumping into the curriculum as a sixth year with no foundational practice in the classroom setting. Fred and George take pity on her and help her with whatever they can, and Hermione expresses her sympathy and offers Alice a recipe for a calming potion, which Hermione herself has used in years past to avoid meltdowns over mental overloading. 

Atop it all, Fred and George inform her that the overall feeling in the school makes it much more difficult to concentrate than usual: what with the approach of the Tournament, and the stress and excitement of having Durmstrang and Beauxbatons students join them in their classes. Alice overhears Ron remarking to Seamus Finnigan that the presence of the Beauxbatons girls has caused his grade to go down, to which Seamus responds slyly, “Sure, Ron, but at least something else isn’t going down anytime soon.” 

Professor Snape challenges her beyond belief in his potions course, calling on her to answer questions when she hasn’t the slightest inkling as to the answers, and they both dislike each other quite strongly, though she understands that respecting him is a necessity for survival—most students disrespect him too much for their own good. Professor Moody, who teaches Defense Against the Dark Arts (which she has on Monday afternoons with Fred and George) is a force to be reckoned with, as is Professor Trelawney, in her own, very different way. 

But Alice’s studies are accompanied consistently over those first days by the presence of the Goblet of Fire, and the excitement and competition it is already provoking in the students—before the names have even been drawn and the games begun. Fred and George attempt to cheat the age line by using an aging potion, one of many failed stunts by underage students to overcome the system. Alice is keen to watch, but something in her heart tugs uncomfortably whenever she sees the blue flame, rearing up like a bad omen in their midst. Sometimes, the feel of it makes her shiver. 

_______________________________________________________ 

Excitement is running high—almost unbearably so—on that Friday, when all the students congregate in the Great Hall, eager and anxious to learn who the Goblet has chosen to represent each school in the Tournament. 

Dumbledore gets them to sit down after a minute of excited conversation, and everyone rushes to sit down at their tables, anxious for the big reveal to get underway. “Now, for the moment you have all been waiting for,” announces Dumbledore. “The Champion selection.” 

The headmaster dramatically dims all of the beacons around the room with merely his hand, and the students have never sat so quietly at their tables, without a feast there to occupy them. Once the beacons have all halved their light, Dumbledore turns his magic upon the Goblet, placing his hands against the side and then stepping back, as though drawing its magical will towards him. 

After the length of a heartbeat, the flame flares up red, glinting across the old wizard’s spectacles, and a thick piece of folded paper flies from the Goblet into his outstretched hand. His head bends down, the magical light catching his grey-white hair, for a moment, as he reads, an anxious and thrilling silence falling over the tables. 

“The Durmstrang Champion is...” he reads, breaking the silence with his grand, warm voice, “Viktor Krum!” 

There is much cheering from the Durmstrang’s table and from everyone else, too, as Viktor stands, receiving many a friendly punch from his friends, before going up to shake hands with Dumbledore. 

As he turns and walks through the doorway into another room reserved for the champions after the ceremony, the Goblet’s flame flares red once again, and this time a delicate cornflower-blue paper with gold lining flutters into Dumbledore’s hand. “The champion from Beauxbatons is... Fleur Delacour!” 

Fleur stands from the Beauxbatons table and walks to shake Dumbledore’s hand with a confident smile and posture that Alice wishes she had. 

Another red flare, another paper: simple folded parchment, this time. “The Hogwarts champion... Cedric Diggory!” Celebration from the Hogwarts tables bursts out with the force of a victory cannon as the name is called, and Cedric himself, a boy from Hufflepuff with floppy hair and a grinning, ruddy face, goes down the tables, following the other Champions out of the room, giving everyone high-fives and hand shakes on his way. 

“Excellent!” exclaims Dumbledore, once he’s left, holding his arms out wide. “We now have our three champions! But in the end, only one will go down in history. Only one will hoist this Chalice of Champions--” as Bartemius Crouch carries an object covered in cloth to the front of the room and sets it in the center of the staff table “--this Vessel of Victory... The Triwizard Cup!” 

With a magical rush of wind, Dumbledore turns and the cup’s veil flies off of it, revealing glowing white-blue glass with intricate and majestic handles of silver. 

But just as everyone is cheering and clapping once more, Professor Snape steps down from the staff table, a look of anxiety furrowing his eyebrows as he looks towards the Goblet. And slowly, Professor Dumbledore and everyone else takes notice, too. 

A darkness congeals around them all as the Goblet’s flame flares up red a fourth time, and yet another scrap of paper is spit up into the air, fluttering down into Dumbledore’s startled hand. A hush rolls over them all; this is most certainly not supposed to happen; and Dumbledore looks down at the scrap of simple notebook paper with a dumbfounded and grave expression on his face, his lips moving soundlessly. 

“Harry Potter,” he says at last, breathlessly, like a question. 

The silence grows deeper. 

Alice’s head turns in shock to Harry, who had been standing up on the other side of the table, leaning against the wall alongside some other friends in his year, but who now sits down, trying to hide among the others, his eyes as wide as saucers, a shadow of terror ghosting across his face. 

“Harry Potter!” Dumbledore shouts, causing Alice to jump slightly, all the air suddenly sucked from her lungs, her insides collapsing on themselves like a vacuum. 

“Harry, for Goodness sake,” Hermione whispers tensely, pushing him towards the front of the room, an expression of fear and frozenness on Harry's face as he walks unsteadily towards Dumbledore, the Goblet, and the doorway behind the staff table. 

On his way, left and right, everyone stares at him, some in awe, some in anger. It doesn’t take long for some to begin calling out curses, calling him a cheat and worse. Even Ron has immediately lost faith, glaring at his friend’s back as he passes beside the staff table and disappears into the doorway where the other Champions had gone. But Alice knows for a fact that Harry hadn’t done in on purpose—knows from the set of his shoulders as he’d stood up, and the terrified look in his eyes. She’s been his companion for too many years to doubt for even a moment that he is innocent of the badness that surrounding voices rise to accuse him of. 

Finally, Dumbledore leaves with a swirl of his robes, following Harry through the doorway almost at a run, and everyone breaks into such outrage that it’s impossible for any of the remaining staff—even Professor McGonagall—to get the Great Hall under control. 

“He didn’t do it,” Alice asserts, looking desperately to Fred and George, who remain suspicious. “He didn’t do it,” she says to Hermione, but even she is on the fence. Ron has already fled from the Hall. 

_______________________________________________________________ 

Harry is nowhere to be seen, either in the Gryffindor Common Room, or in his personal dormitory upstairs, that evening. Everyone is whispering and gossiping about him, congregating in the Common room, almost hiding out in wait for him to arrive, so that they can stare him down, or pile accusations on top of his shoulders. 

Alice is the one to leave the worrisome crowd, and go in search of the Boy who Lived, wandering through the halls alone, her footsteps echoing off the stone walls and floors, perpetuating her isolation in her trust in him. She doesn’t care whatsoever about the numerous papers she has to write tonight and over the weekend, only wanting to make sure that Harry is alright, and bent on finding him and doing so, before she returns to the common room. 

The girl has fallen to pacing anxiously in front of the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy, when she senses a sudden movement in her peripheral vision, on the opposite wall. She turns towards it with a little startled inhale, and watches in never-ending wonderment at the magic of Hogwarts, as a door slowly reveals itself, wrought iron twisted into beautiful shapes upon a wooden door, which expands and solidifies in the wall until it’s as though it had always been there. 

The handle is very heavy, and she has to push down hard in order to get the door to open, but she eventually works up the courage to push forward, her bravery met by the harsh whining of hinges, and to step into the strange magical room. 

Harry is sitting on a stool by the cold mullioned window, seemingly deaf to the world, until the moment at which Alice closes the door again behind her. Also beside the window sits a desk fitted with parchment and various quills, along with Hedwig. Harry, who has been looking out the window, promptly wipes away the tears he’d been shedding before her entrance: tears of anguish, shame, confusion, and much more, all at the same time. 

The boy identifies the intruder by her reflection in the window, and feels his shoulders tense. “I didn't do it,” he says lowly, almost growling, his voice threatening as though she might be here to exploit him or reap some piece of drama to take back to the others. 

“I know you didn’t,” says Alice, slightly injured by the tone of voice, but keeping her shoulders held high, her jaw set tightly against her own sensitivity. “Of course, you didn’t.” 

Harry holds his breath for a stretched moment before shaking his head at himself. “Sorry,” he manages, his shoulders shaking a bit under the guilt he feels at the tone he’d used a moment before. He tries to brighten his demeanor, turning around on the stool to face his companion, but a guttural mourning-dove sound of sadness still tints his voice. “I suppose we must need each other, if you’re here,” he says. 

“What is this place?” 

“The Room of Requirement,” explains Harry. “It reveals itself when you’re in need of it. But I’ve never heard of someone joining someone else in the same room—so we must need each other.” 

Alice thinks about apologizing for disrupting his privacy, but then forces herself to stop apologizing, for once. She looks to the desk, and Hedwig chirps and ruffles her wings. “Who do you think you’re meant to write to?” she asks him, putting the puzzle pieces together. 

“Sirius,” says Harry, and it’s clear he’s known all along why the paper and quills were present, but had been trying to avoid the task. 

“Why don’t you want to tell him?” asks Alice, not understanding why Harry would skirt around any opportunity to connect with his recently-discovered Godfather. 

“I do,” he tries to explain... “But... I don’t.” He shakes his head at himself, and stands up. “You’re right. There’s no point in avoiding it.” 

He looks towards the closest quill, as though willing his hand to pick it up, and after a few moments, he gives in and begins to pen the letter—a short one, to the point, and not too desperate, he hopes. Once he’s finished, he ties it tenderly to Hedwig’s leg, and sends her off with it. He opens the window to the chill, and Alice looks out of it, Hedwig’s wings flapping against the darkening sky, a cold wind blowing off the lake and over the mossy autumn highlands in the dusk. 

________________________________________________ 

Most of Sirius Black’s time is spent in a state of almost-sleep, receding to the center of his mind and saving himself for a catastrophe he is sure is going to strike, soon. But meanwhile, his body still feels weak and barely-there around him, exhausted and on the edge of wasting away. Surely, he would have hurried up and done so already, if it weren’t for Harry Potter. In the center of his mind, in the steady rhythms of his breathing, now, he thinks about his Godson, and an unconscious smile plays across his ghostly mouth. 

But tonight is not destined to be another night of loneliness and cold wind. A heartbeat later, Buckbeak shifts and makes a sound that alerts to the hiding wizard to a disturbance at the mouth of their cave, and he surfaces from the depths of his subconscious mind, suddenly on high alert as he takes his wand from his back pocket and braces himself against the cave wall. 

At the sight of the lanky grey wolf, Sirius’s pupils dilate further. But in the same second, he relaxes, recognizing intelligent thought and emotion in the eyes of the animal, seeing the light white scar across its forehead and snout. “Stand down, Buckbeak,” he says to the hippogriff, pocketing his wand, again. 

Though he knows in the instant that the wolf houses Remus Lupin, it is hard for the wizard to wrap his head around it: it’s always been a hateful thing to Remus, to transform into his Animagus form. In their school days and beyond, Sirius and the other Marauders had tried without end to convince Remus that it was alright, that he simply couldn’t help his condition, that being a wolf was about the coolest thing any of them could think of—even cooler than being a dog, Sirius had once forced himself to say. It had taken quite some time, but after a few years of school, Remus had come to rather take refuge in transforming into his Animagus form—at least then, he had control over himself, his thoughts and actions, unlike when he was confined to his werewolf form every month, at the whim of the moon. Still, he’d done it only when necessary, or when persuaded by the others. 

“I’m surprised to see you like this, Remus,” says Sirius, honestly. 

Wolf Remus ducks his head momentarily, and then after another moment, he transforms, morphing quickly into his human form, fully clothed—a skill that only the most practiced of Animagi are entitled to, Sirius and Remus being two of them. Remus the man shivers a bit, as though shaking off the last of his fur, and only then steps toward his friend, shooting a pacifying glance at Buckbeak, in the process. 

“I had to see you,” Remus says, and holds out a bottomless bag full of clothes, food, and other necessities for Sirius, who takes it enthusiastically. 

Sirius rummages through the bag, charmed to hold much more than it should on first glance, and is relieved to see a closets’ worth of warm clean clothes, and an almost unending supply of food—real food. With curiosity, he draws up a number of dishes and glasses. “What’s this?” he says with a raised eyebrow, though he knows that Remus has been right in inferring that he’s been drinking directly from his wand or his hand, and eating off of the ground for the most part, over the past months. 

Remus shrugs his shoulders. 

“No Playboy?” says Sirius in jest, donning an artificial look of severe disappointment. 

“Please, Sirius,” says Remus, wrinkling his nose, “the fact that you’re more genial as a dog doesn’t mean you should live or behave like one.” 

At this point, Sirius discovers the variety of teabags, and his head rolls back against the wall of the cave as he grins up at the other wizard. “Remus, you’re a saint,” he says, offering no comment to his friend’s previous accusation. 

Remus offers Sirius a hand up, and he takes it, clutching his friend into an embrace. Remus has passed the past two weeks in a blur of muggle trains, of different places in the far north whose familiarity was dampened by a darkness in his heart, a darkness that he has felt before, and feels himself slipping into dangerously. But here, with this feeling, this warmth of a long-lost friend, brings him back to himself. 

“Where have you been, old friend?” remarks Sirius, drawing back as though about to invite Remus to sit down somewhere, but then stepping to the side, a bit embarrassed by the conditions of his current residence. “How is the outside world?” 

Remus goes on to tell Sirius about the past two weeks, during which he’d stayed in a series of rooms: one small garret in Amsterdam that he loves, situated right on the canal, a country house in France, the home of another person with his condition, and then at Arabella Figg’s house on Privet Drive, for a brief stay. “How is Arabella?” says Sirius, who hasn’t seen the woman since his days in the first Order. 

But Remus’s response is cut off by the loud flapping of wings at the mouth of the cave, as a sudden flash of white feathers enters the dingy place: Harry Potter’s bird, Hedwig, carrying a letter around her ankle. Sirius bends down to accommodate the bird, untying the letter and patting the feathers atop the bird’s head before standing up again, and opening the parchment. Hedwig perches down by Buckbeak, and together they make various sounds at each other, seeming to carry on a sort of familiar banter, though Remus Isn't sure whether they can actually understand each other. 

There is no need to clarify who the letter had been sent by; both men would know the snow-white bird anywhere. Sirius squints to read through the note, his eyes shining at first—but then slowly, as his eyes near the bottom of the page, and then scan the words a second time, his face falls, his eyes darkening and his forehead creasing. 

“What’s happened?” says Remus calmly, knowing that expression. 

“The Triwizard Tournament,” says Sirius darkly as he uses the same paper, and gets a quill of his own to write a brief response, before beckoning Hedwig and sending her back towards the castle. 

“That's this year?” asks Remus, having forgotten. 

“Harry’s name has been drawn,” says Sirius, nodding gravely. “And he didn’t put it in.” 

Remus’s face pales dramatically. The implications of this event are undeniable. Someone dangerous is tampering in the Tournament, and with Harry—a boy beloved to them both. 

Sirius quickly takes off to find a fireplace in Hogsmeade Village, which he can use to contact Harry. “I’ll be right back!” he calls to Remus, once he’s already left the mouth of the cave. 

“Famous last words,” responds Remus, and he hears an old mischievous laugh rumble from his old friend’s throat just a moment before Sirius transforms, a sound almost like a bark. A tired laugh, but one slowly coming back into its own after a long dormancy—or, more literally, a long imprisonment. 

Remus, his knees and head starting to feel their exhaustion more heavily, sits down against the wall of the cave with a long, heavy exhale. Buckbeak eyes him and makes an aggravated sound in his throat, not very happy about Remus being there. “Don’t worry, old bloke,” says the wizard with a regretful little smile as the light of the cold gibbous moon inches sideways into the cave. “You won’t have to get used to me.” 

______________________________________________________________ 

Sirius gets back an hour later and, shivering from the cold, he casts a strong and practiced “Focillo,” and retains it until the whole cave is substantially warmed. Remus had previously dozed off into sleep, and Sirius tries not to disturb him, but after years of being a loner, Remus is quick to wake at even the slighted disturbance in the air. Sirius sits down next to him with a little apologetic smirk, noticing the deep lines of sleeplessness written on his Friend's forehead: yet another thing these two outcasts share, now, after so many years, after so much change. 

“Have you met Harry’s new friend?” Sirius says, steering the coming conversation away from too-dire subjects. “Small girl, pretty, frighteningly wise?” 

“Of course,” says Remus with a faint smile, no longer drowsy, now. “Alice. She’s the Notts’ daughter. 

“Really?” exclaims Sirius, putting on a look of revulsion that squelches out the endearing adjectives he’d used to describe the girl just moments earlier. “In Gryffindor?” 

“Dumbledore got her out on the same night she was born. She grew up under Arabella’s roof,” explains Remus. 

“Thank Merlin for that,” says Sirius, as though he’s just avoided a heart attack. “Well, she didn’t seem all that startled or repulsed to see a Wanted Madman in the Common Room fireplace... a welcome change of pace.” Sirius smirks a little, a dull twinkle in his eyes gradually shedding off many years of grime. 

“I believe you owe that to me,” jokes Remus, imperiously. “She knew you were innocent even before Harry.” 

Suddenly, Remus feels an unwarranted flush rise to his cheeks, thinking about The Girl. He’d repressed thoughts of her ever since he fled the Burrow two weeks before, but now that he thinks about her, a wave of shame comes over him. Shame for the way he’d turned his back and run away like a child instead of facing his responsibility to her emotions—emotions she’d admitted to with such vulnerability, placing such faith in him; emotions which he hopes she is steadily banishing from her heart... for both their sakes. 

“There’s something you're not telling me,” says Sirius, pinpointing the issue with unnerving speed. His mouth twists into a smirk as he commences to pry until Remus finally cracks, and admits what had happened between himself and the girl—all the way from his time at Arabella Figg’s house on a mission from Dumbledore to teach the girl magic, to the transition into Hogwarts, the Malfoy Manor, the kiss in his office on the Winter Holiday, and then he happenings of the recent summer at the World Cup and the Burrow. 

“To put it lightly,” says Sirius, processing the overload of information, “you’ve given me yet another reason to get my hands around Lucius Maloy’s neck. And Dumbledore, the old sod...” 

But Sirius shakes away the unpleasantness, deciding to wait until he is alone to really attempt to connect the backstory Remus has just given him, to the fragile features of his Godson’s friend’s face, which he’d seen through the fireplace of the Common Room earlier. For the moment, he has more pressing things to discuss. There’s talking to be done, and mischief to be gotten into (Finally!) in this miserable little cave. Sirius can tell without a doubt that Remus cares about the girl, and Remus, too knows that deep down, he does. But he isn’t willing to let himself admit it. For the moment, Sirius is going to allow himself to be a boy again, if just for a brief time, and his mind reorients itself gleefully to what it had been so many years ago, before the betrayal, before his incarceration. 

Remus notices The Gleam enter his friend’s eye, but can’t react quickly enough to fend off the inevitable storm barreling giddily towards him. 

“What,” says Sirius conspiratorially, “are you afraid you couldn’t take on a sixteen-year-old’s libido? I think we both know you’d be perfectly capable, my friend.” 

Remus tries to make himself deaf, but Sirius’s words have already succeeded in knocking a brick out of the wall Remus had so carefully built against such thoughts... and the implications of Sirius’s words, alone, sends a vile shiver down Remus’s spine. He muffles a moan, diligently keeping his eyes from slipping closed in his sudden weakness—were he to close his eyes, then the sudden image (her hair falling over one bare shoulder, her body clinging to his, a jumble of warm, smooth limbs and helpless, beloved sounds...) would be heightened to an unbearable, wicked clarity. And he can’t have that. Not now; not ever. 

“Sirius,” he says, gulping dryly, “please don’t--” 

“Say!” interrupts Sirius with a flair of drama. “A thought just arrived in my head. How many have you been with? Women, I mean. Since I... well... left?” 

Remus shrugs his shoulders again, wishing that Sirius would change the subject, but glad that it has shifted away from Alice in particular. “There was one woman at an inn, once, and then a woman I met in the Netherlands a few years ago. But she grew suspicious and left, thank God.” 

Sirius looks at Remus expectantly, waiting for him to add to his list... but when he doesn’t his eyes widen, and he brings his palm to his forehead in a timeless gesture—one that Remus had been treated to many a time during their school days together; and one he has to admit that he has missed a bit. 

“Two!” exclaims Sirius with incredible disappointment. “Two, since school, and only one when you were in school? Remus... And that was PANDORA LOVEGOOD, for Christ’s sake! Before she was Lovegood, of course... I can’t recall her maiden name, poor thing. But—Remus! I expected you wholeheartedly to carry on my legacy while I was indisposed! All that time I was living vicariously through you, don’t you see?! Don’t you realize how disappointing this is? I have thirteen whole years of shagging to make up for, now! Don’t you see what a disservice you’ve done me?” He collapses dramatically against the cave wall and smirks sideways at his friend. “But, really, Remus, at least you wank regularly.” 

“Sirius!” says Remus, nearly sputtering in disbelief. “Stop this! She’s a student.” 

“And?” says Sirius, his undiluted, mischievous smirk twisting his gaunt face, now, a sparkle sneaking into his eyes, but a more genuine and sincere tone taking hold, now. “Moony, I’ve never seen you head over heels—not really, not truly—until today. What does eighteen years matter in the face of that?” 

“Eighteen years...” Remus says, breathing in and out generously before he can faint. 

“Remus...” says Sirius, gleefully playing the devil on his friend’s shoulder. “She’s not YOUR student.” 

“You sly dog.” 

“I’m afraid--” Sirius draws himself up with satisfaction “--I must confess to being both of those. 

“Sirius, she... knows about me. She’s far too smart to care for me, truly. It’s just a brief infatuation—you can be sure of that.” But there’s a twinge of disappointment in every syllable he speaks, and as he says the words, a small rebellious part of himself prays that they are not true. 

“Maybe,” Sirius starts, stuck on what Remus had said about his wolfishness, keen on twisting anything and everything to his inner jokester’s advantage. He grows closer to his friend’s face, his eyebrows raising suggestively. “Maybe she likes it.” 

“Ugh,” scowls Remus with more than a little sincerity, turning away. “You’re a fowl, dirty-minded creature, Sirius Black, and I’m never going to speak to you again.” 

“Ha!” laughs Sirius aloud. “Remus, I pray you, listen to yourself! You’re in love with the girl!” 

A moment of silence passes, in which Sirius looks persuasively at Remus, and Remus fends off the ensuing attack from both his friend and from his own instincts. Buckbeak grumbles disapprovingly. 

“Love,” says Remus with a quiet scoff, shaking his head. “I’m finished with this conversation, Sirius.” 

But despite himself, Remus begins to feel the word building upon itself in his chest, slowly spreading its wings—and with each beat of his heart, he hears it echoed: love-love, love-love, love-love... 

“I’m torturing you, aren’t I?” says Sirius happily. 

“Yes,” breathes Remus, closing his eyes, already starting to give in. 

Sirius’s eyes twinkle like stars, now. 

This is the most fun he’s had in thirteen years. 

_______________________________________________________________________ 

Spells used in this chapter: 

1\. "Focillo,” a warming charm 

That last line hit me hard! 

While I see Sirius as a very gentlemanly and dapper father-figure of a person in public, with one of his old school friends, I have no doubt that he would be much more loose with the tongue. Which really only makes me adore the mischief of his character more. 

Fun fact: the surname, Lowell, that Dumbledore suggests to Alice, means “Wolf.” Dumbledore... such a sly old matchmaker. 

Before anyone asks, I would like to clarify that there is not going to be any homosexual activity between Remus and Sirius—not that I’m not for that (on the contrary, I'm writing their characters, in the present, with the thought process that they were probably together in that way at some point at Hogwarts or soon after), but it just won’t be a part of this specific story. 

I referenced Pandora Lovegood in this chapter. She was Luna’s mother, and died experimenting with a spell of her own creation when Luna was nine years old. I thought it would be reasonable for she and Remus to have been in a brief relationship with each other during their Hogwarts days, before Xenophilius came along—they both would likely have been outcasts, and oddities, as far as the other students were concerned. 

I think it’s worthy to note that in the middle of writing this chapter when Remus and Sirius were just meeting in the cave, Sam Smith’s “Scars” came on my playlist unexpectedly, and I had to spend the next half hour bawling my eyes out. I was still writing, mind you, but there were typos galore, and then I had to take another hour to go back and fix it all. The things I do for you guys. (Just kidding... I’m kind of addicted to this story). 

If you guys haven’t heard Loreena McKennitt’s song “The Highwayman,” go and listen to it NOW. 

Please, please, please let me know what you think about the story! I LIVE on your comments, water, sleep and food... in that order. I would love to hear from you! 

Thank you for not plagiarizing my writing! 

On_Errand_Bad 

12,196 words 

Friday, 13 November 2020


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